Crystal Cold
by Riddelly
Summary: A cursed diamond has gone missing from the British Museum, as well as something else that's even more important to John Watson. Soon, he and Sherlock are racing to get them back, against a familiar enemy. T for character death. S/J. Post-TGG.
1. 1

**A/N **_Hi! Okay, this'll be a relatively long AN that you're absolutely allowed to skip. Go on. Skip it. *nudge* No? Wow, thanks. So. This story was originally posted in three parts, of which I got only the first two up. Then I decided that they were much too long for chapters at 10,000 words each. So now I've divided it into 10 chapters, all of varying lengths, though they're all between five and ten pages on Word. This is indeed my first Sherlock fic, and blah blah blah. It's just pre-S/J for the first several chapters, I'm afraid... by "several" I mean, like, eight. Okay. Anyways. Reviews would be utterly adored, and for those of you who were following this story before I started re-posting it... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. For the wait, that is. Look, I'm quoting Doctor Who. I'M QUOTING TEN. _Thisby, stop talking about DW in a Sherlock fic's Authoress's Note. _Right. Sor- you know what? I'm just going to shut up now. Oh, but one more thing- I am one of those dreaded, idiotic Americans, which means this is written American-style, with spelling and grammar and all that. It'll be flawed. For this, I apologize. Now I'm done apologizing. _

**Rated T **_for blood. Blooooooooooooood. I like blood. It's nummy. _

**Disclaimed **_I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>110_]

**WOMAN REPORTED MISSING**

_The disappearance of Sarah Sawyer, 38, has taken a rather alarming toll on the spirit of the medical practice which claims her occupation. Sawyer has never served a large job there (though it is confirmed that she had a more than adequate salary, possibly linked to her disappearance), and yet, according to a fellow worker, she "Brightened up the place, really—it's been different without her around…"_

The next words were blurring. John squeezed his eyes shut, breathed in slowly, and opened them again, but the text refused to solidify any further. He realized that he was clutching the newspaper far too tightly, that it was slicing into his palms, but this was a sort of faint echo in his mind. It didn't matter. It didn't matter…

'She's in here,' was what he wanted to say, but somehow it came out differently, as "I'm in here." Softly, lightly, hesitantly spoken, but the ears of the only other in the room would have been hard-pressed not to catch even the faintest of sounds.

"Hm?" was the vague reply from somewhere near the couch, but he hardly heard it. _They didn't tell me she was gone, _he thought numbly. That man, that man with the notepad, intruding the other day… he'd been a reporter, then, hadn't he? _Well, what else had I expected?_ A family member, in all honesty. Just a family member… because he'd thought she was sick. That was what he'd been told. Never in the exact words, but… _she is unavailable. Indisposed. Otherwise occupied… _He'd never thought that she'd be _missing, _though. Why had nobody told him? Surely he was a relevant person in her life, an important one, and deserved to find out such a thing through a more direct informant than the paper?

He wanted to keep reading. Wanted to find out what they know about her, who was on the case, _why nobody had told him…_

"I'm… I'm in here," he found himself saying again. "I'm in the paper. Quoted."

"Hm…"

The same response as before, pronounced only slightly differently. Indifference rather than inquiry. Sherlock didn't care. Of course he didn't care. Why should he care? But John wanted him to care, wanted _somebody _to care… he felt numb. It was frightening, and he needed an escape from it.

"Yeah. I'm quoted… in an article… about Sarah."

The reaction he got this time was notably more literate, but certainly not a shade less careless. "Sarah, isn't she that woman that you're spending so much time with? What's she done now?"

He didn't bother to answer. Instead, he spoke two more words—just two more, letting them drop into the air, confirming it.

"She's missing."

And then, finally, he felt something—a sort of hollowed-out sensation around his stomach, as if some small, inner piece of him had fallen away, leaving behind a heavily empty cavity, swirling fiercely with nothingness. Sarah. She was missing. Missing. Lost. Gone. _That's ridiculous. She'll come back. Of course she'll come back. _It was a mistake, some stupid kind of mistake… people made them all the time; that was something that he'd learned, living with Sherlock Holmes… all the time.

Yet there was something so official and standard and _real _about those small black-inked letters staring out at him from the fresh white page. All his life, John Watson had been a man to work along with the law, with society- never rising above or slinking below it, though disapproval wasn't necessarily beyond him. He believed the facts he was presented with, when they were at least somewhat reasonable, and these words, these sentences right here- they were unavoidably _true. _Slowly, without even realizing that he was doing it, he let the paper slip through his fingers and stood, looking up and staring through and at nothing. "She's missing," he repeated, not talking to anyone anymore.

Unwillingly, he felt a sick ripple of dread running through him. To imagine- just imagine... what if _he _was involved somehow? Moriarty? True, he and Sherlock had seen neither hide nor hair of the so-called 'consulting criminal' since that night at the pool, when the two of them, knowing instinctively what each other was thinking, had turned and plunged into its watery depths just as Sherlock fired the shot that would, hopefully, be the end of the mad and dangerous man standing yards away with a mildly interested and ever so slightly surprised look on his face. By the time that the dripping wet pair had dragged themselves out onto solid ground, though, Jim Moriarty was long gone. Somehow he had evaded the bullet that should have meant certain death for him- even through tightly shut eyelids, John had felt the fierce burn of the explosion and glimpsed the red-hot flash before sinking underwater. How he'd done it was a mystery, however. Mysteries... they certainly had no lack of them, him and Sherlock, at least as many as the police had questions when they had arrived minutes later. He had overheard Sherlock talking to Detective Inspector Lestrade later on, while he, John, was busy being tightly wrapped in a bright orange blanket. Telling the story, yet leaving out one thing, one essential thing. As far as Lestrade and the rest knew, now, neither of them ever caught a glimpse of Moriarty himself. There had only been a henchman. John didn't bother to ask Sherlock the reason for this alteration to their story, knowing the answer well enough himself. What Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were engaged in now was between the two of them, and, at times, John. The police weren't to get involved. It was like the stupid taxi cab driver all over again. Sherlock wasn't going to call in the authorities. He was going to take the chance. Absorb the risk. Swallow the pill.

"The Great Game." That was the name of the blog post that John had finally finished, detailing the majority of their latest ventures, though, like Sherlock, he had left out the fact that they'd encountered Moriarty in the flesh. Back during their first case, it was Sherlock himself who'd said the words: "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" And the game hadn't ended yet. No, it was far from it, very far. The cabbie had been wrong about their- meaning his and Sherlock's, Moriarty and Sherlock's- little round of chess. It had much, much more than one move. It was a complex maze, a twisted, shadowy, misleading path of deduction and guesswork and danger and uncertainty that had only come to a very brief hesitation, while Sherlock occupied himself otherwise. They had been waiting, him and John, that was all. Waiting for Moriarty to make the next move.

And, John thought blankly as the newspaper's pages settled into a crumpled heap on the floor, it looked like he just had. He wasn't thinking as he slowly lowered himself back into the armchair, shaking slightly, and so he didn't even register the beep of the cell phone from across the room.

Sherlock, however, who had been watching John with a vague, mild sort of interest (having nothing better to do), did. His hand snapped out and retrieved the phone almost before the brief sound was over, and his intent, green-gray eyes flickered down to the words on the screen.

'_Cursed' diamond stolen from British Museum. Nothing broken, no fingerprints, nothing. Just gone from its case. Up for it? -GL_

Sighing lowly, he keyed in a response at a speed acquired from texting as often as many called.

_Mundane. Even you aren't that pathetic. -SH_

Hesitating for the briefest moment, he glanced up to where John was sitting in his usual armchair, staring into space, looking remarkably pale and rather shaky. _Why would her disappearance affect him so much? She wasn't that great... _it was irritating that, sometimes, the most important questions were complete mysteries to him. Impulsively, he added one last line before hitting _send._

_What about Sarah Sawyer?_

The reply came so quickly that he knew Lestrade must have been waiting for his answer.

_She's been tracked quite a ways, wouldn't have thought it was your style. Shouldn't be long before we find her. But Sherlock, this is a valuable gem. Please? -GL_

Sherlock curled his lip slightly, reading over the last few texts. A single word jumped out at him- _cursed. _And from the two syllables, instantly, sprang two ideas, two possibilities for the theft. Either the typical had happened, and someone had wanted the thing for its worth, or there was some insane superstitious sod out there who thought that he was protecting the public. A careful theft, leaving no evidence (that Lestrade and his lot could find, anyway, and he'd learned not to set the highest standards with them) said it was the former, unless there was some sort of myth wrapped around this diamond indicating that it had to be treated with respect, or something of that sort... doubtlessly, a quick look around would tell whether the carefulness had been from an urge to protect oneself from the police, or from this ridiculous curse. He might as well set the Yarders in the right direction. And- this next bit came with another glance towards John- maybe he could hear what they had to say about Sarah.

_I'll be there. -SH_

_Thx -GL_

_You text like a fifteen-year-old girl. -SH_

There was no response, but Sherlock wasn't expecting one. In moments, he had his coat wrapped around him, the cell phone and his hands securely pocketed, and his body turned in John's direction.

"We've got a new case. Come on, let's not keep them waiting."

There was a pause, during which the rumble of cars and people outside seemed to echo a hundred times louder. He frowned slightly at the back of John's head, then spoke again, voice raised slightly. "Let's go. I don't want the crime scene _completely _destroyed; Anderson has the remarkable ability to butcher things until they're incomprehensible even to me."

"No," John answered, simply, quietly.

"_No? _What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, I'm not coming. I have a couple other things on my mind right now."

"That again. You honestly think that sitting in a chair, staring out the window, is going to help get her back?"

"_Sherlock._" John tilted his head back so that it rested against the chair, and Sherlock could tell that his gaze had shifted to the ceiling. "You can't- there's no _way _that you can't see why I'm not in the mood to run around and listen to your egotistical rants right now. You go pester people, go and snap at them about how much of idiots they are, but I'm done. Don't try to out-logic me, either, because just about everyone else in the world understands that huge emotional blows result in this type of thing."

Sherlock's scowl deepened. 'Everyone else in the world,' apparently, was rather idiotic. Of course, that hardly came as a surprise. It was amazing, though, how humans were naturally programmed to do absolutely nothing just when they most needed to. _Lucky I'm able to overcome it, or this planet would be a complete mess. _

Still, if John was determined to 'care...' Well, why not see how far that would take him?

"Shame, this is rather risky business to be diving into alone... of course, I did get my share of it before you came along..."

"Stop showing off. You said the police would be there."

"You of all people should know, John, that I like to take a look at things privately. You'd be welcome, of course... but if you'd rather stay and mope... well, I suppose I'll be able to manage." He paused, considering the next line he intended to speak very carefully. "You have proved yourself rather valuable, such as that time with the taxi driver... but..."

"Damn it, Sherlock, don't guilt me!"

He smirked faintly at John's still-turned head. "I'm not guilting you, I'm merely pointing out that-"

"Shut up. I'll come, okay, but don't expect me to be of any bloody use to you... I could use some action is all." The last bit was muttered, but Sherlock caught it. It was with no small measure of haste that he covered up his now widening smirk as John stood up and made his way to the doorway. Use some action, indeed. John could deny it, to himself as well as those around him, all he wanted, but Sherlock knew that his own life and well-being were more than trivial to the other man.

_Not all that bad, _he thought, watching John's worn, distracted face as the two of them started down the stairs, _being 'cared' about._


	2. 2

**A/N** _Re-reading this chapter, for some reason, is painful for me. It's not particularly bad, I guess, just... nnrgh. Whatever. Enjoy!_

**Thanks to** _Sylvia Griffin3, Natalie Nallareet, & ThePhoenix'sSong_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>210_]

"The British Museum."

John couldn't believe it. All of that, the guilting (whatever Sherlock wanted to call it, there was no denying what its true identity), the pestering, the long taxi ride that he sat through in eager suspense- and then they'd stepped out to be greeted by a rush of fresh, cool autumn air, a scattering of pigeons, and the towering structure that was familiar to any London visitor or resident.

"Yes, a nice architectural design, isn't it?"

"You brought me to the bloody British Museum."

"Well, it's not just a pleasure trip, you know," Sherlock shot back, a hint of irritation beginning to creep into his low voice- and it was completely without its source, John thought furiously. He couldn't honestly expect cheerful willingness when he'd just heavily implied danger in the mission they were on, only to turn up here. "There is a crime scene- oh, look, they've blocked off the whole place."

Indeed, if one would look through the throngs of people mulling about, it would be to see an impressive quantity of police tape plastered across every entrance to the place. Sally Donovan assumed the same position she had the first time Sherlock dragged John to a crime scene- poised on the other side of a yellow tape barrier, walkie-talkie in hand, leaning slightly against the museum's stone wall and watching them approach with a sort of bemused disgust on her face. She also gave the same acknowledgement of their arrival into her communicating device- but with an addition that John didn't fail to notice: "Freak's here, brought his pet along."

"Excuse me?" he found himself asking, torn between offense and disbelief.

To his amazement, she didn't look the least bit perturbed. Instead, she slipped in a low "don't fool yourself that you're anything more to him" as Sherlock lifted the tape and the two of them stepped through.

"Be nice, Sally," Sherlock chided, and she rolled her eyes.

John stared at the ground, watching his feet take each step forward. _Don't fool yourself that you're anything more to him. _He was so intent on this that he hardly heard Sherlock's quiet murmur.

"You know..." his voice was caught in one of those rare moments of awkwardness, of humanity. John glanced up, puzzled, to see the other's face turned away slightly. "You, well... I don't... think of you as a pet."

He realized that they'd both stopped walking. "Okay," he said slowly. "Not a pet. I'm flattered."

"No, I mean... you're... my friend." Clearly, the words were costing him, and John couldn't keep an incredulous expression from coming over his face, though whether it was in response to the words he was hearing or the tone which they were being spoken, he didn't know. _This is ridiculous. It shouldn't take someone this much effort to say this. But why does it feel like such a heavy compliment from him? _

"Are you implying that you actually _care _about someone?" he asked, keeping his tone light, amused. But Sherlock only looked more uncomfortable than ever.

"John-"

"Sherlock, you came!" At the sound of Lestrade's voice, Sherlock's face closed over, became as cold and impassive as ever.

"I said I would."

"Yeah, well..." The Detective Inspector was breathing a bit heavily (he had clearly hurried over to greet them), his dark, puppy-like eyes moving back and forth between Sherlock and John. "You might've run into something on the way... dead squirrel on the road that implied the assassination of the Prime Minister..."

John stifled a chortle. _Indecent. Your girlfriend's missing. Act like you _care, _for God's sake. _He ignored the pressing thought of Sherlock's earlier words, about how caring didn't, and would never, help. It was true, in a way. Caring hadn't helped Sherlock at the pool. If he'd been able to run away before that laser had found his forehead, when John had been holding Moriarty back... of course, then he would probably be the only one alive right now...

"Just show me the crime scene."

"Right." Lestrade nodded hastily, then turned left. The other two followed quickly. "It was in the special exhibitions area, only here for a couple of months."

"Tell me about the diamond."

"Well, it's big-"

"How big?"

"Ten carats, uncut. Not the hugest thing we've ever seen, but still has its value- but here's where it gets tricky."

"The curse," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah. So, there's a legend that the gem can see into the soul of each person to set eyes upon it. And then they'll experience either good or bad luck from that day on for the rest of their lives, based on how pure their spirit is. Rubbish, but the crowds love it. Which is a bit bizarre... so many modern Londoners convinced that their souls are all sparkly, I wouldn't be so-"

"This is it?" Sherlock cut in as they had arrived before a single, empty glass case. It was small, John observed, a little over a cubic foot, perhaps. A simple, wine-colored velvet cushion lay inside. It was the only exhibit in the whole room, and roped posts clearly meant for crowd control ran back and forth before it.

"Yeah."

"So..." He slipped under the ropes and stepped up to the case as Lestrade ushered out the other policemen in the room. John stepped up to Sherlock's shoulder and watched both of their faint reflections in the glass. Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he muttered to himself. "They move along quickly, stare into the thing for five, ten seconds, let it evaluate their soul" -his mouth quirked up a little there- "and then move along so the next person can have a turn." Then his voice rose. "And there's nothing here at all, you're sure?"

"Of course," Lestrade promised from the other side of the room, where he was standing back and watching warily. "Nothing at all."

"John, I need gloves."

John opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. _No use. _He plodded over to Lestrade, who, grinning apologetically, fished a pair of thin, blue latex gloves out of a box in his coat pocket. John tossed them over to Sherlock, who caught them one-handedly, eyes not moving from the case. He pulled them on as John returned to his side, and instantly began to feel the case- its corners, the hinged back (which was shut with a small, inconspicuous padlock), the plain wooden pedestal that it sat on.

"How long has it been here?"

"A month, I think."

"It was uncut?"

"Right."

"And was it ever taken out for cleaning, or inspection?"

"Every morning, before the crowds came. They liked putting the extra shine on it."

Sherlock didn't reply, but instead set about running his fingers over the padlock. Then, in a quick movement, he jerked it open. "Nice of you to take care of that, though it would have been useful to know the numbers it had been set at-"

Lestrade swore under his breath. "Unlocked? I told them not to touch anything!"

Sherlock froze, his pupils dilating slightly in the glass reflection. "And you're sure they _did? _The lock wasn't set to open?"

"No, definitely not... we checked the numbers, even if we didn't touch it."

His frown now slightly more pronounced, he resumed his inspection of the case, now opening the door and removing the velvet cushion from inside. There was a faint depression in it where the diamond had undoubtedly rested, its dark edges crisp against the paler hue of the rest. Replacing it, he set everything back in place, observed the clear glue securing the glass to the wood, poked at it with his fingertip, and then stepped back.

"Interesting," he murmured, "very interesting."

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

"The cleaner. Every morning. You have a tape of him?"

"Yeah, a tape of him coming in and finding the thing empty. It disappeared before this morning. Sometime in the night, though the guard didn't seem to know a thing about it... and it is on twenty-four hour surveillance, yes, but-"

"I need those tapes, Lestrade. Bring them to my flat, I can't think with all these policemen around."

"Well, yes, all right, but did you _find _anything?"

"It was theft," Sherlock murmured.

"Yes, of course it was-"

"Somebody non-superstitious, obviously, even you could have figured that much out... but he was none too careful..."

"What do you mean, none too careful? There's nothing here, nothing!"

"That's what the cleaner wanted you to believe. He's in on it, but..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the line of glue again. "...Unwillingly... ah, I see. Yes. Well, someone came in late last night, working for a boss, nicked the gem, and ran out. The tape's been fed a loop, clearly. But he's done a messy job, the boss isn't satisfied with it... so he sends in a second one to do the rest of the work. He replaces the case and the pedestal because the first mucked them up so much. He isn't perfect, either, but that makes sense, because he was nervous, so he probably came in closer to the morning... it also would have been getting lighter if things were that close, which of course would result in some jitters, museum opens at ten o' clock, everyone must come on at least a couple of hours earlier, including cleaner boy- that's when he 'found it,' and... the security system on this thing really is awful. Unless... ah, there we are. A security man- probably the night guard- and the cleaner. There you go."

"And you're just going to leave it at that," John muttered.

Sherlock smirked. "Of course not, if you care to hear the reasoning."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall, watching with an air of bemusement.

"This entire thing" -he gestured towards the case and pedestal- "has been replaced, that's clear by several things. For one, the padlock is new, set to the right combination but stiff, shiny, sharp. Stiffness also goes for the hinges on the case. If it was removed for cleaning every day for a month, then they'd have loosened up by now. On the cushion, a clear imprint where the diamond rested, but the cleaner boy is a nervous man, his hands would shake slightly when handling the diamond, and it wouldn't always settle into the same place like that. There's no need to replace all this if all you're going to do is take the diamond- in fact, it would be safer not to. So, clearly, someone came in and made a messy job of it. Yes, it was early at night, because the glue's already dry from when the second one, the cleaner boy, had to clean things up. When he- a security man, it had to be, for everything to be this neat and tidy with the system, he clearly just shut it down- when he reported back to his boss and his boss saw what a mess he'd made of things, another man, doubtless the cleaner boy, was sent in to replace everything, though it took him a while to set it up. He clearly did so before he brought the whole thing in. But he was nervous, you can see that in the shaky glue lines- his hands were trembling rather absurdly, because it was getting close to dawn and the arrival of the other staff. This is quick-dry glue, but not _that _quick-dry, because it's very strong. It's ten, ten-thirty now, so he must have finished up polishing everything off just around when others were about to come in- let's set it at twenty minutes before. About seven-thirty, he was done and got out of here, just in time. Security man tied it all up into a neat little package, and now everything looks perfect. So find out who was on security last night, and the cleaner boy, you've got them. The only question," he added to himself in an undertone, "is who they were working for..."

"So, that's it, then?" Lestrade asked. "You expect us to arrest them?"

"Yes, of course. And ask them who they did it for, see if you can squeeze a few words out of them... easy case, I wish you hadn't wasted time calling me in."

John couldn't help a wisp of a smile from condensing on his face. Sherlock never failed to amaze him, no matter how 'obvious' he considered things to be. The Yard was lucky to have him as a consultant. _And I'm lucky to have him as a friend..._

"Now." Stripping off the gloves, Sherlock tossed them back in Lestrade's direction- the DI just barely caught them- and tucked his hands back, comfortably, into the pockets of his trench coat. "What about Sarah Sawyer?"

John's stomach jerked violently, and his eyes widened as he looked back and forth between the two men. Sherlock tossed him a rare hint of a grin.

"I can send you what we have," Lestrade sighed wearily.

"Excellent. John, shall we?"

Pausing only to cast an apologetic glance Lestrade's way, he hastened after Sherlock, a bit confused by the sociopath's apparent and rather sudden show of heart. He hadn't reacted at all, really, when John had first told him about Sarah, so why care now? He glanced sideways at the taller, dark-haired man as the two of them paced down the museum's front steps. He seemed as impenetrable as ever, his pale eyes slightly unfocused, the edge of his bottom lip pulled in slightly as he bit at it, his hands deep in his pockets, so that the sleeves bunched up slightly around the edges. One lifted out, fingers stretching out in a wave as he signaled a taxi. How was it that he could be like that, almost kind one minute, then, the next, behaving as though he didn't even have a companion?

_Odds are, you'll never understand him, _John thought to himself as the taxi that had been beckoned pulled up at the curb. _But that doesn't mean you can't- _Sherlock let himself in first, pulling the door shut behind him. John stood there for a moment, disbelieving. When there was no change, he yanked it open again and slid in, scowling at the other, who was smirking faintly, his face turned to the window.

"What was that for?"

"What was what for?"

"You shut me out."

Sherlock shifted to face him, still wearing that little smirk, and twitched his shoulders slightly in something that may have been a dismissive shrug. "But that didn't stop you from coming after me."

To that, John had no retort.


	3. 3

**A/N** _Got a bit lazy on the proofreading for this chapter, so my apologies if there are errors. This chapter and I have a love/hate relationship- the first part I like, the second part I hate, and the third part I love. So... tell me your opinion! Please give a review, I would appreciate it tons!_

**Thanks to** _Idunn and Electryone_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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><p>[<em>310_]

The files on Sarah's case arrived in John's email inbox about an hour later, while he and Sherlock were sitting silently in their flat, the latter flopped back on the long couch and staring at the ceiling with an almost frightening intensity that John didn't question (he'd learned not to, with such things). As soon as the bolded print appeared on his screen- _**Sarah Sawyer info; DO NOT SHARE**_- he moused over to select it, his hand suddenly shaking so badly that he had to click several times. The email popped open.

_Here it is, everything we've got. I've sent it to Sherlock, too, but there's more chance you consider it important than him, we all know that. If you can get his opinion, any ideas, they'd be welcomed, just try not to point out very strongly that we'd appreciate them... it is nice to think that we can get on without the guy occasionally._

_Detective Inspector G Lestrade_

_Metropolitan Police Service_

There were several attachments, but before John could get to any of them, the door burst open, causing him to jump and almost let the laptop slide off of his legs. He managed to grab its edges, meanwhile twisting around in time to see Lestrade himself bolt into the room, wearing an expression similar to that which he had the first time John had met him, when he'd come to tell Sherlock about the Lauriston Gardens body.

Sherlock snapped into a sitting position immediately, every muscle in his body stiffening in attention. "What is it?" he asked.

"The cleaner of the diamond," Lestrade panted. "There's a... development. I tried texting you, but-"

"My phone's off. I don't like those beeps disrupting my thoughts."

The DI nodded in a rather exasperated way. "Right, well... I think this might interest you."

"Tell me."

"That's what I came here for, Sher-"

"Just tell me."

After the period of one long, irritated inhale, he continued. "All right, well, he was replaced recently. The old one, William Abbott, was found dead not an hour ago."

Sherlock's gaze seemed to sharpen, and he stood up immediately, his fingers curling slightly at his sides in a gesture that John had learned to recognize as suppressed excitement. "Dead? A murder? You never said that there was a murder involved!"

"That's because I didn't know at that point!"

He didn't seem to hear, already reaching for his coat. "Well, we can't talk here-"

"Why...?" John began tentatively, speaking up for the first time. Both Lestrade and Sherlock turned to look at him in slight surprise, as though they'd forgotten he was there. Sherlock frowned at him slightly, and, instead of answering, asked a question of his own.

"Coming?"

He glanced back at the computer, at the files on Sarah, then at Sherlock, who was standing by the door. Creaking echoed up the stairwell as Lestrade descended, leaving the two of them alone.

"Why should I come?" he asked quietly. "Sherlock, I care about Sarah, okay? And you can't call worrying pointless now, I have reading to do, Lestrade sent me her files. You can't fool me that it's dangerous this time, you're just going to be talking. And I need some time alone."

Sherlock was rather taken aback by this abnormal attitude. He wasn't sure what he thought of this John, the muted, saddened, tired John who looked at him with those exhausted eyes, the eyes that reminded him how much their owner had been through and seen. He hesitated for an instant. It was rare to catch Sherlock Holmes in a moment of un-sureness, but even unlikely occurrences happened at times. And with John, somehow... what he wanted mattered. And not only because it affected Sherlock.

_Why? Why does it matter to me how he feels? Why should it?_

Stunned by his own inability to not answer a question, Sherlock gave a brief, small nod of assent. "Right," he mumbled, his voice a bit rougher than usual. And, spirit slightly dampened, he hurried after Lestrade.

John sighed in a mixture of regret and relief, settling back into his favorite chair and pulling the computer farther up on his lap. The mouse wandered towards the first of the email's attached files, but something was bothering him, and it wasn't the extremely abnormal instance of a few seconds ago- though Sherlock acting _hurt, _and seemingly not even in a fake, manipulative way, was certainly odd. _There's no reason for him to care. He doesn't care. He's uncaring. That's who he is. _John was kidding himself, though, and he knew it. If Sherlock didn't care for him, then what had propelled him back at the pool? Moved him to place John's safety highly, even before his own...

Almost accidentally, as his eyes roved the flat, John realized what was causing the seemingly source less, gnawing cavity in his stomach. There it was, hanging rather limply on the coat rack, as if it couldn't understand why its owner had suddenly abandoned it.

Sherlock had forgotten his scarf.

Colors flitted by the taxi's windows, but they were unnoticed, as regular and insignificant as the steady hum of honks and rumbles that formed the background noise one associated with streets. Normally, though, Sherlock tried to pay some measure of attention- not much, just enough to notice any snag in the flow of lawful city life. It always stood out to him like a rock in a soft pillow. But now... now, hard as he tried to concentrate, he found his attention splotching, focusing in and out, somehow unable to reach the thin, even measure that he was used to. The image of John's face, looking so _weary, _couldn't seem to leave his mind. Words were echoing through his skull, reverberating, persistent. _And I need some time alone. _It was quite an odd thing to realize that this was _painful _to him. Painful that John didn't want to come with. And not just because that would leave him without an assistant, either, but because it would leave him without something else. The look on Donovan's face when she noticed he'd left his 'pet' behind... what would it be like?

The taxi pulled to a halt outside the familiar building with its shiny sign- _New Scotland Yard- _rotating slowly before it. Sherlock paid the cabbie without really thinking, then climbed out and walked over to the waiting Lestrade, who had just exited his own police car. Halfway there, a thought came to mind, and, along with it, a jolt of shocked, disgusted disbelief.

He'd noticed nothing about the cab driver. Not a thing. That was what he _did _on drives- he found out as much as he could about the vehicle he was riding in, played around with a few possible details of the man driving it... it was a game, almost. A childish way of entertaining himself. The only times he didn't were when someone else, someone more interesting- _John- _was in the cab, too. But there had been no one this time. At least... not in the flesh.

His thoughts were burned away like mist in the morning light by Lestrade's hurried approach. But the words that came from the DI's mouth only reformed them. "Where's John?"

Sherlock blinked, then hesitated, looking somewhere over Lestrade's shoulder. "I... I mean, he... stayed back this time. That woman, Sarah Sawyer... she was his girlfriend." He wasn't sure why those words cost him so much, but they did take their toll, almost seeming to press on his lungs. He coughed slightly, rolling his shoulders a bit and straightening up.

Lestrade's graying eyebrows raised. "Was she really? Well, that's a shame. I'd say that we'd redouble our efforts, but..." He shrugged, then turned away. "No use standing out here, let's try my office."

Sherlock nodded curtly and followed him, followed him through the doors of the building and down halls, between cubicles, listening to the beeps and murmurs everywhere. The sound of other people and their problems, their dangers and mysteries. He remembered the shaky, halting, sobbing words of the second hostage of Moriarty's game, the man who went with the four pips. _That's the sound of life, Sherlock. _The sound of life. _Life. _Other people's lives... slowly, it was coming to him, as a sort of heavy, material truth where before there had only been a dull acknowledgement. _That's the sound of life. _

_Their lives have some importance, too, do you realize that?_

And knowing that, in truth, he never _had _before was unsettling. But only unsettling, nothing beyond that. Just comprehending that he _should _care didn't mean he _did _care.

"Here." Lestrade's voice slowly dragged Sherlock out of the murky depths of his own mind, back into the sharp present, and he saw that they'd arrived in the DI's private office. He shut the door behind him with the heel of his hand, then strode around to the edge of the desk. The other sat in a deep blue swivel chair and set about powering up his desktop computer, going on in a monologue about the discovery of the dead man, William Abbott. Sherlock was listening, or at least trying to listen, though the odd, rather uncomfortable feeling that had assaulted him moments before was rather persistent. He felt different, jarred, confused, and he didn't like it at all.

If John was there, Sherlock would have been able to drive the intrusive, distracting new thoughts away easily. All it would take was the knowledge that he had an assistant of a type, something that he could reach out and touch if the world became too rocky. It never had before, so why would things like that concern him? But now... now everything had a new depth to it, wherever he looked. An emotional depth. A shallow one, but... that picture frame on Lestrade's desk, to the right of the computer... yes, he knew where it had been bought and when, he knew exactly what it had cost, he knew the age of the two chubby-cheeked toddlers beaming out from inside it... but did he know what their father thought of them? Did he know if they laughed and played with each other, if they really loved the furry black dog that they were hugging, if those huge grins were genuine...? No.

_I don't know anything._

_I'm clueless._

While Sherlock pondered this, John was back in 221B Baker Street, having an intense staring contest with the former's scarf. Though his conscience was screaming at him to forget about the damn thing and look at Sarah's files already, he couldn't help but be bothered by its presence. It wasn't hurting anyone- no, that was a lie. It was hurting him. How had Sherlock forgotten it? Every time he'd gone out for a case in the time John had known him, he'd taken the blue scarf, so that, at this point, it was really a symbol of who he was.

_Why are you worrying about this now? It's hardly cold out. He'll be fine. Go on, read up on Sarah, do something worthwhile. Staring at a scarf isn't going to help anyone. _

Sighing, he turned purposely away from the infuriating garment and double-clicked the first attachment of Lestrade's email. It seemed to be an account by the last person to see Sarah, supposedly- her neighbor, who had spotted her entering her house at ten o' clock the night she disappeared. Apparently there hadn't been anything wrong with her that the neighbor noticed, and it wasn't so unusual for her to get home that late... in fact, it seemed she did rather often...

John growled under his breath. _I can't focus on this! _It was Sherlock's stupid fault, forgetting the damn scarf, but what was he supposed to do about it now? It was such a tiny thing to get irritated over. But the idea of Sherlock _without _his scarf was just so out of place...

_You honestly think that sitting in a chair, staring out a window, is going to help you get her back?_

_Damn you, Sherlock..._

Snapping the computer lid shut with a grudging finality and setting it on the chair's arm, John stood up, walked over to the door, yanked the scarf off of its hook, and reached for his jacket.

"William Abbott- age thirty-nine, found shot dead in the courtyard of Anthony Rockwell's mansion. There's absolutely nothing to go on- Rockwell was holding a party that night, some sort of Venetian-themed thing, and apparently there were plenty of masked and probably uninvited guests... so the shooter could be anyone off the streets, really, who'd walked in wearing a Carnival mask... nobody'd spotted him exiting the house, which isn't exactly odd, as they were all completely wasted at that point. He'd been thrown behind some bushes, and not discovered until today. They found him by the _stink- _it has been a while since his death." Lestrade pronounced the last few words with obvious disgust. "He'd been missing for a couple of days, that's why they replaced the cleaner."

"And who-" Sherlock began, leaning in over the other's shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen.

But his words were cut off as the door banged open with an intensity that caused his breath to rush out in a hiss. He straightened up, turning swiftly to see who it was.

John. John, looking slightly out of breath, and holding in his slightly raised hand nothing other than Sherlock's own blue-gray scarf. He looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade for a few moments. "You forgot your scarf," he finally announced to dead silence.

Sherlock frowned slightly. "You came... to give me back my scarf?"

Lestrade's eyes widened with amused incredulity, but he didn't say anything.

John blinked. "Er... that is..." His hand slowly drooped to his side, the scarf still hanging limply from it, and his face flushed slightly. "I thought that you might... need it... for something."

Sherlock's gloved fingers brushed unconsciously over the collar of his coat. Now that it had been pointed out to him, his neck did feel rather bare without the scarf's familiar padding. But why would John come all the way just to bring it to him? "I thought you were reading about Sarah," he found himself saying.

"I... I was, but..."

There were a couple of clicks from the computer, and he glanced over to see Lestrade rather busily rearranging Abbott's files, barely disguising what was either an exasperated smirk or an entertained grin. Grumbling slightly, he paced over to where John stood leaning against the doorframe.

"There's no way you came here just for this," he muttered under his breath. "Is there something that you-"

"No... this is all. Really." John pressed the scarf into the detective's hands rather hastily, his blush darkening. "I don't even know... here, take it."

Sherlock did take it, muttering "thanks" before doubling the garment over rather harshly and pulling it tight around his neck. John tucked his hands into his pockets and glanced over at Lestrade, whose gaze was still resolutely focused on the screen before him.

"Should I... go, then?"

"If you want. Stay, go..." He waved a hand vaguely, returning to his spot behind the Detective Inspector. John seemed to teeter on the brink of indecision, then hurried over to stand beside the other two, eyes still shifting around, clearly burning with embarrassment.

"I was just pulling up the information on the dead cleaner, a Mr. William Abbott. The circumstances surrounding his murder are rather interesting, why don't you take a look..."

Sherlock had to give Lestrade credit for his smooth, casual tone of voice. He himself couldn't have pulled over such a convincing act of ignorance- for ignorance it must have been; no one could deny the stiff tense, atmosphere of a few moments ago. John seemed a bit too eager as his eyes fastened on the screen's words, as though he couldn't wait to occupy himself with matters other than the awkward exchange between the two of them. Sherlock scanned over the document himself, though Lestrade had already told him most everything there was to know. _So the person that the diamond thieves were working for must have been serious, if they went this far... _a name prickled at the back of his mind, taunting him, suggesting an idea that, if the world was fair in any way, couldn't possibly have any measure of accuracy to it.

_Moriarty._

_Jim Moriarty..._

The one enemy who'd gone too far. His 'fan,' who had taken things a step farther than any of the others and stolen John. Other than Mycroft, who truly couldn't be considered a threat... and, besides, his brother wouldn't have actually _harmed _the man he'd kidnapped. Moriarty, on the other hand... he could still recall with almost eerily perfect clarity the exact way that John had pulled away that awful green parka to reveal the mess of Semtex that had been plastered over him... and how, in the moment before Sherlock's mind had been consumed by raw horror, he had felt the oddest, most foreign and inappropriate emotion possible for the occasion: _relief... _relief because, even though John was in danger, he still was _John... _because, in those split seconds beforehand that seemed to have stretched into a million years, he had thought that John himself was Moriarty, that everything had been fake, transparent, that he had fallen for it and considered John to be a positive acquaintance, even his friend...

_But he isn't, wasn't. _John was John, and Moriarty was Moriarty. Never again would the two of them cross in Sherlock's mind. Moriarty was a symbol of everything bad and twisted and wrong with the world, whereas John was... the opposite.

So was the consulting criminal behind this, then? Had he been the one to conduct the theft of the diamond? _You're being paranoid, Sherlock. Paranoia is a death trap. _It was also an odd, lopsided distortion to his usually clear views of possibility and probability. He was _inclined _to think that Moriarty was responsible, to the point where it seemed the only option, and yet he knew that it could have been anyone. There were surely dozens of crime rings secretly operating in London; the Black Lotus had been one example, there had to be more. So there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that the robbery could be credited to Jim Moriarty.

_So stop being delusional. This is all ridiculous. Just see clearly, it isn't that hard._

_I could use one of those nicotine patches just now..._

"...So the killer could be any of nearly a hundred people." John's voice, which seemed to have at least partially recovered, was the one to break the silence.

"Right. And this time, we really do have _nothing _to go on. Except for the guests' names, but all of them seem to check out fine, at first glance. More likely it was one of those who walked in. Abbott was, as a matter of fact, there's nothing to show that Rockwell or any of the official attendees invited him."

"Abbott came without an invitation?" Sherlock murmured, and John recognized the sharp edge to his voice, the one that showed he had noticed something that had evaded the minds of the other observers.

"Yeah."

"Abbott came without an invitation... well, then, it's obvious, isn't it?"

"O-obvious?" John protested weakly, tentatively. "I don't-"

"Of course you don't think it is," Sherlock snapped. "No, here- clearly, Abbott didn't come for partying; the body had no trace of alcohol in its system, see?" His gloved finger moved over a line of text on the screen. "Nobody goes to a party as riotous as that and then abstains. He must have been meeting someone there. The shooter, possibly. But then... if he was involved... it was an anonymous invite, it must have been. Talk to Abbott's family, see if he'd been talking about any suggestions to come to the party, if anyone he knew had been attending."

"I'm already supposed to be sending you the museum security tapes!"

"Forget the security tapes, I don't need those."

Lestrade opened his mouth, then closed it with a tired exhalation. "I'll try to as soon as possible."

"Good. John, let's go, there's nothing else here."

"Huh? Oh, okay..." John followed Sherlock to the door of the office, but stopped when Lestrade's voice rang out in protest behind them.

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm not done with you yet!"

"Well, _I'm_ done with _you._"

"No, listen- this is _important!_"

Sherlock hesitated halfway out the door, then turned his head so that he was facing the DI in profile. "What?" he growled at the wall.

"We've already got the security and the cleaner. They don't deny their role in the diamond being stolen, but they won't say who they're working for..."

"Of course they won't, but we'll-"

"Or where the diamond itself is _now,_" Lestrade finished loudly.

A frown creased Sherlock's features for half a second, then disappeared like a ripple into an ocean. "No matter, we'll find out soon enough. I might want a chance to talk to them. I'll text you if I do."

"What if I've impulsively decided to turn my phone off?" Lestrade called back sarcastically, but not before Sherlock had slammed the door behind him, leaving him and John in the busy hallway.


	4. 4

**A/N** _Chapter four. Um... not much to say here. Enjoy? PLEASE review!_

**Thanks to **_Electryone_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>410_]

"Are they working for Moriarty, then?"

John's question dropped out of the air instantly in 221B's padded silence, leaving no trace of an echo, so that Sherlock had to rewind the moment to re-process the words. He was lying on the couch in his usual catlike stretch, his arm comfortably processing the double-patch relief that he had provided it with, trying to clear his mind. _Moriarty. _Just the thing that he didn't need poisoning his thoughts right now. "Moriarty..." he murmured the name, testing it out on his lips and tongue, seeing if its pronunciation would reveal anything. His eyes were closed, providing soothing, relieving darkness, so he didn't catch the scowl that John shot him from across the room.

"Yes, Sherlock, Moriarty. Do you think he's behind the diamond theft?"

"Possibly. What do you think?"

There was a pause there, one that stretched out long enough for Sherlock to crack open one eye and glance over at John's armchair. He was greeted by a rather amazed expression.

"What?" he asked a bit anxiously, blinking and propping himself up on one arm.

"What do _I _think?" John repeated.

"Yes, of course. Do you think it's Moriarty?"

"...You're doing that thing again. You're going to say that a second opinion is helpful to you or whatever, and then you're going to go and tell me how it's totally wrong. I don't need that right now, Sherlock, I have-"

"Other things on your mind," Sherlock finished, sinking back into the couch cushions and throwing an arm over his face. "That again. No, don't say anything," he added when John made an angry noise of protest. "I know she's important to you, but she's not important to me, so rubbing my own heartlessness in my face really won't do anything to benefit you. You might as well give up now and go back to your moping."

There was another pause, but this time, Sherlock didn't bother to look up. He knew that John wanted to scream at him, and it really didn't matter to him whether he chose to or not. But the words that finally settled into the air were spoken very softly, every one clearly chosen with sharpness and venom in mind.

"Moriarty said that you had a heart, but there's a long way to go before I agree with him."

If John had been inside Sherlock's mind in the next moment, he would have taken those words back a thousand times over in reaction to the calamity that burst forth. The emotion that had so briefly surfaced before now came into full realization. _Hurt. That hurts. What do you mean, I don't have a heart? I have a heart, John, and I can prove it, let me prove it... _he didn't want John to think he was heartless. Which made no sense, because when had it ever affected him before? But now they had an almost physical effect on him, like a punch straight to his stomach, so that his breathing caught up slightly before going on. That had never bothered him before, that accusation of cruelty... not when Anderson spat it out, or Donovan or even Lestrade... not when Mycroft growled it over the dinner table in their early years, not when Mrs. Hudson suggested it jokingly with a twinkle in her eye... but with John... well, John was his _friend, _as well as the one person who he thought actually admired him. The Yarders put up with him, Moriarty was fascinated by him, Mycroft couldn't help but lend some measure of brotherly affection... but John was different. John seemed to like him, actually like him as a person, and that wasn't something that he wanted to change. Not now, not ever. _Just because I don't care much for Sarah doesn't mean that I don't like you..._

Even before these thoughts had finished their journey through his mind, he was physically reacting, in the form of pulling himself into a sitting position. John, he saw, was seemingly engrossed in his laptop- it hid his face, at least. He was sitting stiffly, and his knuckles shone white where he gripped the edges of his computer. He was waiting for Sherlock's reaction, but he wasn't going to get one. _If he's going to throw childish insults around like that, he might as well get immature responses. _Trying to pull his mind away from the words that still seemed to hover in the air- after all, they'd had fights before, they never meant anything- he glanced at the time on his own open laptop, which was humming softly on the coffee table. _13:03. _John would be getting hungry, though the faintest traces of rumbles that ran through his own stomach were far below his notice or caring.

_Well, he can deal with that himself. If he's going to be stubborn and sit there, it's not my problem._

And then, simply because his mind wouldn't let him away from it, the original thought he had been pondering returned. _Moriarty. _How was Sherlock supposed to know if he was the one behind it or not? There was nothing. Nothing. The diamond was certainly worth a lot, what with its 'curse' and all, so it wasn't necessarily a way of showing off, or a message that-

_A message._

Instantly, it seemed, his phone was back in his hand, and his fingers were moving over it, creating words that were to be sent to Lestrade.

_Security tapes. Send them immediately. -SH_

Moments later:

_You said you didn't need them! -GL_

Gritting his teeth, he keyed in a response swiftly, not bothering to pile in the annoyance and sarcasm that were floating about his ever-so-active mind.

_I do now. -SH_

_All right, I'll get it done asap. -GL_

As soon as he saw the response, the irritation was overwhelmed in a surge of excitement. There was obviously a possibility that his theory was completely wrong, but if it _was _Moriarty, there was bound to be something... after all, the two of them thought alike... very alike...

Hardly more than a minute had elapsed since Lestrade's final words, yet Sherlock was growing unbearably impatient. How long would it take him to send the damn tapes? He had to know whether or not he was right, and he had to know now. After a few more tense seconds, he snapped the phone up in his hand again.

_How long will this take you? Can't you just email them? -SH_

_These are fairly secret, Sherlock, we can't just toss them out into the internet -GL_

_Well, how long will it take you? -SH_

_There's an officer on his way- GL_

_On his way, now, in the car? -SH_

_Yes Sherlock -GL_

He resorted to watching the clock on his phone, observing the transition as each minute ticked by, until finally, at 13:17, there was a knock downstairs. He smirked faintly, listening to the hustle and bustle of Mrs. Hudson, sounding concerned as she always did when a cop car showed up on the doorstep- though, really, she should have gotten used to it by now...

The door banged open, and his head whipped around to face the policeman that entered. He was new, as could be seen by his young age, crisp uniform, and mundane assignment, as well as the fact that Sherlock hadn't met him yet. Additionally, there were distinct signs of a late night hanging about him, and the greasiness of his hair as well as his bleary gaze suggested no sleep at all- but if he had been doing something related to his job, and was that thorough with work, he would have taken measures to make sure he looked good, so the causes the previous night had been unrelated, and he might even have come in late. Sherlock remembered his trek down the Yard's corridors with Lestrade, and the distinctly annoyed glance that the DI had shot at a small, empty desk, one with a fresh card in the name plate: _Henry Armstrong. _

"Thank you, Mr. Armstrong," he acknowledged as he rose up to accept the memory stick that the young officer held.

Armstrong blinked, confused, and glanced down at his shirt as though expecting to see a nametag. "Detective Inspector Lestrade told you-?"

"That the security tapes would be being sent, yes." Sherlock displayed a fakely pleasant smile and raised the flash drive, inclining it towards the door. "Now, off with you, I have some work to do. Oh, and if you want to get far in this profession, do get to bed at _some _point, Lestrade won't appreciate you sleeping on duty."

Henry Armstrong blinked a few more times, then nodded mutely and tromped down the stairs. Sherlock tapped the door shut behind him before sinking onto the couch, turning the memory stick over and over in his hands, then uncapping it with a single swift motion. The metal glinted gently in the afternoon light slanting through the window, but was quickly cast into darkness as he shoved it into his laptop. The few moments while he waited for it to pop up on his screen were agony, and once it appeared, he couldn't click too fast. There were two files- one labeled _Night_long _and one _Time_of_interest. _'Time of interest,' presumably, was the segment contained in the time that the robbery had seemingly occurred. Knowing that Moriarty would have expected him to figure out the correct hours, it was the one Sherlock selected.

The video appeared in a small box, and he changed it to full screen, leaning in with his index fingers pressed to his lips. There seemed to be nothing, at first, just the faint glow of the glass case gleaming, multiple lights focused on it. The diamond itself was relatively small, and quite round, considering its uncut state. But it was only as relevant to Sherlock as the rest of the tape.

Then he heard it. The faintest, faintest sound, that could have been something as insignificant as a security guard patrolling a few rooms down- in fact, that was almost certainly what the Yarders assumed it to be. But it was too even, too steady to be that, and Sherlock knew it, just as Moriarty had predicted.

_Tap... tap... tap... _

"John," Sherlock breathed, touching the computer's spacebar to pause the video. "Get over here."

There was no response. He glanced up to see the doctor not moved a centimeter from his previous position, face still unreachable behind the screen of his laptop.

"Don't be stupid, I found something, you ought to be interested in it!"

"Why should I care? It doesn't affect me, does it?" John shot back venomously.

Exasperated, Sherlock lifted his computer and, taking care to step on the coffee table, strode over to where John sat. He stood next to the armchair, balancing the laptop on his left hand, and clicked _play. _"Listen," he growled.

_Tap... tap... tap..._

"So?"

"Do you hear that?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah, I hear it."

"Well, it's not just random. Those taps- they were put in later by the security man who looped the tape; he also overlaid the sound."

"But... why?"

"They aren't just taps," Sherlock breathed, rewinding to the beginning and hitting _play. _"They're a message."

Silence filled 221B as the video played, and each _tap _seemed louder than the previous. They _were _irregular, John noted, not as steady as someone's walking rate would be... then he realized it, and as the message became to come together, his heartbeat rose.

"Morse code," he whispered.

"Did you catch the whole thing?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I just-"

With an echoing hollowness, the taps came to a halt, and the diamond was once more bathed in serene lack of noise. Sherlock exited full screen, and John frowned slightly. "I didn't catch that last... what did it say? What's the message?"

"Listen again."

As the video was played a final time, everything became clear to both of them. The message was clean, perfect, pristine as ice in its delivery- not to mention just as chilling.

_Well done, Sherlock. I see that you've managed to find my little Easter egg, haven't you? So reliable. You never disappoint, my dear._

_I've been thinking about how much fun it was, playing that game with you. You really are a good competitor. But it seems that we came to a sort of draw, now, didn't we? How would you like to give it another try? Let's have a rematch, Sherlock. Only this time, our game will be a little more exciting. _

_I've grown weary of puzzles, Sherlock, or at least of watching you work your way through them. So this time, let's try a new approach. Let's play hide-and-seek. I've hidden a literal diamond and a figurative one, in some people's minds. Why don't you give it a try? See if you can find them. xxx._


	5. 5

**A/N** _Five out of ten. This means halfway, kids. HALF. WAY. Heh. Ohmygod, I can't wait for the actual climax part because I luff it like the totally vain, stuck up authoress I am :D Yay. Well, we're not actually there yet. So... yes. Review. REVIIIIEW. Ngah. Please?_

**Thanks to** _no one last chapter ;n;_

**Disclaimer **_I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>510_]

John was confused.

This, of course, was far from an unusual occurrence. An intelligent man he may be, but he lived with Sherlock, and that meant that he'd always be struggling after, sinking into the quicksand that the other darted over and falling into the traps that he activated. That was okay, usually. But times like this, when Sherlock retired to his couch and just went _silent- _they, admittedly, were hard. And now, what with Sarah's disappearance, he had more to be concerned about than ever. _A literal diamond and a figurative one, in some people's minds... _Moriarty had to be talking about her, he just had to be. And the Yarders might have thought that they'd progressed in the case, but Sherlock had insisted that it was a completely false trail they were being fed, and she wasn't in Peru at all, but rather being held somewhere in London. Of course, he had gone quiet before explaining why, and had remained in that state for three days since.

Meanwhile, his flat mate was growing frantic. Every day at work, things seemed more and more out of place. Sarah had finally been replaced, now that the story was out that she wasn't just sick- and her place had been taken by a forty or fifty year old man who snapped at everything and scared all the younger patients. John was hoping that he'd have the sudden urge for an early retirement, but, of course, that would render Sarah's desk completely empty, which might- no, _would _be even worse. A sort of desperation was growing inside of him, something that couldn't be restrained or pushed aside, and he'd taken to pacing the flat, back and forth, back and forth, occasionally chancing a look at Sherlock to see if he'd suddenly spring up, the light of a new theory burning in his pale eyes.

But nothing had yet occurred to Sherlock. Moriarty had truly given him nothing to go on this time. There was nothing, _nothing _that any of William Abbott's relatives knew that was useful in the least. Apparently he'd gone on a walk that night, like he did every night, and not come back. His flat was only a mile or so away from the mansion where the party was being hosted, and it seemed as though he had simply seen the ruckus and gone to join. Sherlock _knew _that there was more to it than that, though, as could be proven by the lack of alcohol on the body. Abbott had been meeting someone at that party, someone who had then killed him. It was the only thing he had, the only thing that Moriarty could be trying to tell him something with... their minds worked alike, didn't they? So it ought to be obvious. _Why would I murder the cleaner of the diamond? Would it just be to get him out of the way, to replace him with one of my own men? Or to send my enemy a message? And if so, what _was_ the message? _Was it possible that an impossible crime had been set up intentionally, so that he could be laughed at? No, that wasn't it. Moriarty wanted entertainment, not triumph. Most likely, the consulting criminal was taunting him with what was sure to be a tauntingly simple answer. With this in mind, he'd tried to let his mind flow for the last few days. _Just relax... it should come to you... _

It didn't, though. And he knew exactly why: John. John kept getting in his way, even though it was rare for him to actually burst out one of the burning, scathing thoughts that were certainly always haunting his mind. _Care to explain anything? You do realize that he has Sarah, don't you? What place in London are you talking about? Are you ever going to talk again, or should I just move out now? _And, once, even the old _I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone, because no one else can compete with my _massive intellect!

Well, John could say what he liked about Sherlock's massive intellect; the truth was that he truly couldn't keep up with the speed of the ideas whizzing through the detective's mind, each one being turned inside out in search of a single gleam of fact or evidence before being cast away- at the rate of about eight every two seconds. Moriarty was trying to tell him something. The thoughts of hidden messages within the Morse code tapping, on Abbott's body, around the circumstances under which Sarah had gone missing- each of these had been pursued, with nothing. So there was something else. Something that, perhaps, didn't have anything to do at all with this case itself, but rather their previous encounters...

Eyes bursting open, Sherlock heaved himself into a sitting position, teeth gritted tightly. "It shouldn't be so damn _hard!_" he snarled, watching his own fingers curl into fists, the tendons in his wrists straining as slightly overlong nails dug into his palms. Before, there had always been some sort of clue, something to work with. Why wasn't there one this time? _Was _this simply a demonstration of Moriarty's apparently grand skills?

_No, no, he can't... there's no way he's cleverer than me. There's something... _

_Treat him like a normal criminal._

Yes.

All this time, he'd been searching for something left for him _intentionally. _He was getting weak, falling up, thinking that this particular nemesis was something special... but no. That wasn't what he had to do. Moriarty was as human as anyone else, just a bit higher on the intelligence scale. He was prone to make mistakes. Everyone did, after all. Everyone.

_An unintentional message... an error in the delivery... _

That's when it hit him. So obvious, so _blindingly _obvious- there had been a double layer of meaning after all- and then he was reaching for his computer, flipping it open, pulling into his lap and clicking faster than should be possible, selecting the video file, turning up the volume, listening intently.

John had thought that the Morse code was tapped out perfectly. But John made mistakes sometimes. Sherlock, on the other hand, did so much more occasionally. Perhaps the gunshot-worn army doctor hadn't even noticed the differences in the already muted sounds, so tiny, so specific, but there nonetheless- the odd flicker of noise that was just the slightest hint louder than the rest. Letters picked out of the words. Just a few. _F... O... U..._

_Four pips._

Intentional. Not a mistake at all, and funny that it was that train of thought that had taken him there... Sherlock felt triumphant. He had done it. _Got you, _he thought, and he couldn't keep the edges of his mouth from curling into a smile.

If John had been expecting relaxation when he got home after that particularly hard day at work- and he did; why shouldn't he, what with Sherlock's now-expected silence?- he was massively disappointed. A greeting was waiting for him in the form of his flat mate standing practically in the doorway, coated and scarved, and most certainly speaking again.

"We have to visit Ian Monkford's wife," he announced before John could get out as much as a word.

John blinked disbelievingly, his eyes traveling up and down Sherlock's tall, dark silhouette. "I-" he began.

"No, don't be stupid. You've already proven that you're useless trying to stay behind. You lasted, what, a quarter hour last time?"

"At least half-"

"Don't even try," Sherlock shot back, taking John by the shoulders and turning him around. "Go on, get moving, I don't want to have to push past you. This hallway is rather narrow."

"Could you please give me a day _off?_" he inquired desperately of the black-and-white pattered wall, trying to resist the detective's insistent hands pushing him back towards the stairs.

"Like you didn't get three of them. And you didn't seem too pleased about it, either."

John finally surrendered, jerking away with a huff and striding towards the stairs. It was with heavy resignation, as the two of them stepped out the door and into the London breeze, that he let himself ask the question prickling at the back of his skull. "So, Mrs. Monkford? Any reason in particular?"

"Yes, the Morse message, it was double coded."

"Double-?"

"There was a second message layered under the first. Some of the taps were a hint louder than others, specific letters picked out... _four pips. _He's telling us that the next step has something to do with the four-pip puzzle he gave us, the one with Janus Cars. Lestrade arrested everyone involved, and there were a lot of them. Obviously he's pointing us towards someone memorable. Who's the most significant person involved in the Monkford disappearance? Ian's wife. She has something to tell us, and we're going to find out what. I already called the dear Detective Inspector. He'll have her waiting for us at Angelo's."

"Angelo's?" John repeated doubtfully. "Isn't she supposed to be in jail?"

"Well, yes, but this is a special circumstance. I don't want it to look like more than a friendly conversation to anyone who could be spying for Moriarty, though chances are he'll find out soon enough anyway. And you'll find that the police tend to agree to my special demands."

"I'm sure I will," he muttered, resignedly turning in the direction of the restaurant that he was all-too-familiar with. He had already, really. The relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard was one that wasn't often seen between the government and civilians- but Sherlock was unique enough that regular circumstances rarely surrounded his activities. Indeed, he realized, the place they were headed to now was where the two of them had gone to on their first night of living together, where they had sat for only a few minutes before embarking on an insane taxi cab chase- what he'd called the 'craziest thing he'd ever done,' before Sherlock pointed out so cleverly that he had, after all, invaded Afghanistan. _True enough. _And it had been. Sometimes, looking back on the war, he was amazed that anyone could be stupid enough to start something like that. _Yet you're stupid enough to love it, aren't you? Even though it's deadly, cold chaos, even though it doesn't care for all the lives that are wasted because of it, you can't help but love it. You can't deny that it's the thought of it that keeps you alive._

He suddenly noticed that he had been vaguely watching Sherlock's slightly scowling profile, and looked away instantly. An odd sort of prickle ran down his spine, and he gave a slight, voluntary shudder, trying to shake off the strange, unidentifiable feeling that was now overtaking his mind. _It's all your fault for thinking about that now, you idiot. _There were other, more concerning topics to be examined. Like the fact that he'd been dragged away from the pleasant, lazy evening he'd been envisioning to sit and watch Sherlock interrogate a convicted criminal. Of course it had to be the one time he _wanted _his flat mate to be quiet that the opposite happened.

It was a chilly, gray sort of day- chillier and grayer than London's usual state, that was, and therefore entering Angelo's was quite welcoming, even at the sight of a dejected-looking Mrs. Monkford in a corner booth. A waitress that John didn't recognize came over and muttered something to Sherlock. The detective nodded slightly, then informed him out of the corner of his mouth that there were police stationed throughout the restaurant, ready to come forward if the woman made a move. John instinctively glanced around, trying to identify which of the seemingly innocent-looking customers could be on the lookout for their safety. There was no Lestrade, Donovan, or Anderson, and everyone seemed relatively casual. Each table's candle was lit, casting cheerful, flickering shadows over the occupants' faces. _Sherlock probably knows which ones are which, and their ranks and life stories, too, _he thought grudgingly.

A sudden windy cacophony against the windows and an icy breeze from the half-opened doorway signaled rain. John hurriedly shut it fully behind him, but not before a scattering of drops hit him. He shivered slightly, running a hand over his now-damp coat sleeve as he followed Sherlock to the back of the restaurant where Mrs. Monkford was waiting and slid after him into the overly cushy booth.

The woman's face had changed. When he saw her at the site of the discovered car, it had been twisted into a sort of horrified mourning, eyebrows drawn tightly, almost angrily together and tear tracks shimmering down her tight cheeks. Now it was the opposite: she seemed almost _too _relaxed, her eyes heavily lidded and her chin hanging down, gaze focused on her loose grip on the corner of the table. The picture of utter resignation. It seemed as though her arrest had been a bit of a nasty shock- and perhaps she was regretting assisting in her husband's transportation to Colombia.

Without any pretense, Sherlock leaned forward and spoke. "You have a message for us."

"I..." Her voice was also tremendously different, shaky and weak. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're lying," Sherlock replied, and John could hear the faintest tinge of eagerness in his low tones, which were warming up, tumbling out of his mouth at a faster rate. "There are countless signs that you're hiding something, Mrs. Monkford. Higher-pitched voice- your vocal cords tighten under stress, nothing to do about that- slow, shallow breathing in an attempt to ward off semi-hyperventilation, refusing to look me in the eyes- no, don't do that," he added with the slightest hint of amusement when her dark gaze instantly snapped up to meet his. "And this is between us as a sort of protective psychological barrier, isn't it?" He whipped the candle- which, unlike others', was positioned in the exact middle of the table- into the air, and the woman flinched visibly. Sherlock blew it out with a tiny puff and pocketed it. "Now, how about you tell us what we came to hear?"

She watched him despairingly for a moment, then let out a massive sigh, shrugging heavily. "I don't know what kind of message you could call it, but..."

"_Tell us._" His voice had taken on a stronger, almost fierce tone, and he leaned in yet farther. "Tell us what you're supposed to."

"I'm not _supposed _to tell you anything," she protested weakly. "I just... last night... I had a strange visitor."

"Who?"

"A- a woman. She looked n-nervous... almost _dazed... _didn't seem to want anything to do with me, kept saying something about her boyfriend..."

John's heart beat so violently that all of his vision seemed to brighten for a moment. Was it possible? Could it be that she... she had been there, just the night before...?

"'He sent me, why did he want me to come, what am I supposed to tell you?' That's what she was saying. Then she babbled for a while- I'm not sure she was totally sane, actually... but... then she let a name slip. Just a name... I recognized it, though... I knew who was responsible for my arrest." She glared hard across the table, a shadow falling over her face. "Sherlock Holmes."

John hesitated for a second, puzzled, about to ask if the woman had mentioned any John Watson, but Sherlock got there first. And, as usual, the detective had a look in his eyes that showed he knew something more about the situation than his partner did.

"And what was her boyfriend's name?"

"I- I don't know the full one," Mrs. Monkford mumbled nervously. "Just a first name... could be anyone..."

"_What was it?_"

She swallowed thickly, ducking her head away again, a dark curtain of hair falling over her face so that her response was barely audible.

"Jim."

"Molly," Sherlock breathed, pale gray-green irises now fully alight with triumphant realization. Then John was practically shoved aside in the other's haste to escape the booth, and all too soon he found himself outside in the now-heavy rain again, deaf to Mrs. Monkford's confused protests back in the restaurant.

"Sherlock!" he protested as the detective, who hadn't bothered to remove his trench coat, turned and started down the sidewalk. He could hear faint mumblings over the heavy pounding of water drops.

"Of course, he must have been mocking me, he knew I wouldn't go in for anything of Lestrade's with a puzzle from him on, but it would have been staring me in the face if I was there- and then he sent me off on the long way around so that I'd feel like an idiot- well, it worked, Mr. Moriarty, your little prank has been played-"

"_Sherlock!"_

For the first time, he glanced back, and the doctor was rather alarmed to see a wide smirk spreading across his face. "Hurry up, John! We have a morgue to visit!"


	6. 6

**A/N **_Part six. So, we're now more than halfway through! ^^ Enjoy my butchering of more canon characters, and please review! Also- I know it's awful of me to advertise fics for other fandoms on this one, but I know that lots of Sherlock fans also watch Doctor Who, so I'm just going to throw it out there... I do have stories for it... though they're all slash or femslash one-shots XD_

**Thanks to** _Electryone and SuperSonicBeatrice_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>610_]

Sherlock knew as soon as he saw Molly that something was different. She looked relatively normal, just walking out of the building, tugging at the zipper of a jacket with one hand and adjusting her headband with the other. But something was wrong. He knew it the second she glanced up at him, because her eyes kept moving- onto John, then over the rest of the street. Not reacting. Not _noticing._

_How could she not notice _me?

He considered himself to be anything but modest, and with good reason, too, but this didn't even require well-earned vanity to see. Molly Hooper fawned over him, asked him to coffee and did everything he asked her to in half the time it seemed to require, even wrote about him in that ridiculous, kitten-picture-adorned online diary that she kept. Though it was a bit difficult to understand people's emotions sometimes, that didn't mean he couldn't see them, shining out so clearly that it was a wonder people weren't blinded by them. He knew how she felt about him. Didn't care, but still knew. And he'd been gone for three days. She wouldn't look through him that thoughtlessly.

_Something's wrong. Something is very, very wrong._

"Molly." He strode towards her, vaguely aware of John hurrying behind him, but keeping the greater part of his mind focused on the woman before him. The closer he got, the more he saw that was wrong. Her nails were painted but chipped, an odd thing for the usually self-conscious but practical woman, her abnormally overdone makeup not disguising the dark shadows under her large doe-eyes, and he could see beneath her coat that she'd lost quite a bit of weight recently- she'd been fine the last time he'd come to work, so she must have practically not eaten anything at all. The idea of sudden anorexia flitted in and out of his mind with the speed of a lightning strike- she was food-conscious, but not enough to go to those measures, and he'd made sure to drop a hint or two about him appreciating her normal weight upon John's request. She wouldn't go directly against what _he _preferred. That wasn't assumption; it was fact. Truth.

"Molly," he repeated, reaching out and gripping her shoulder when she still didn't react. Her head turned slowly to face him, eyes lifting up without moving another muscle in her face.

"Sherlock?" she asked, the word coming out slowly, almost as if it was moving past some sort of blockage. "...Fancy seeing you... here."

John's breath caught. Sherlock heard this, but didn't turn from his quarry. He was now reaching out, taking hold of her other shoulder, too, and staring down at her. Her face seemed stress, and yet oddly slack at the same time. "Molly, I need you to concentrate. _Think. _Have you recently seen your boyfriend?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she replied listlessly.

"Yes, you do. Jim. From the IT. Remember?"

"Jim?" She suddenly jerked away from him with such violence that he stumbled back a half-step, her formerly unfocused eyes now shining with bright fury. "Don't talk to me about him! I don't know anyone named Jim! There was never anyone named Jim. I don't know anyone named Jim! Don't talk to me about him!"

Her words, repeated in the exact same tone, like she was some sort of android, gave John a slight chill. But Sherlock was merciless, snapping back at her.

"Yes, you do! Don't lie to me, this is important, do you understand that? He showed you something, didn't he? He planted information in you, but it scared you literally out of your mind... that makes sense, you've always been delicate. Molly Hooper, the one who'd never join in on the coworkers' horror movie nights... and now getting it out of you is going to be hell... tell me. We know who he is, Molly, we know what he's like- you need to _tell us _what he did, understand?"

She shrunk back, now visibly shaking, her whole body trembling alarmingly. "N-no! He didn't do anything! He's a good person, I l-like Jim, he's nice."

"You just said that you didn't know anyone named Jim," John spoke up evenly. "Now you're saying that you like him. Something's going on. You don't need to deny it. We're here to help you." His tone was slow and gentle, like one he'd use with a young child. "We can make it better. We can make the hard things go away."

She shook her head, a pencil flying out from its position tucked behind her ear and skidding across the wet sidewalk before slipping into a dirty drain. Sherlock glanced over her shoulder for a brief moment, eying a cozy-looking shop whose soft yellow lighting radiated warmth and comfort. Looking at the name block-lettered across the top, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of irony.

"Come on," he said, meeting her scared-rabbit stare again. "Bit chilly out here, isn't it? Why don't we go get a coffee?"

She swallowed. The over-applied makeup coating her face was starting to drip with rain, resulting in a rather alarming look, as if she was melting.

"We can get you something warm," he coaxed. "Something frothy... it's awful weather out here."

"You're going to make me talk about Jim," she whispered, her stare almost sane for a moment.

"We're going to _protect _you from him," John corrected. "If we don't help you, Molly, he could come back and-"

"_NO!_" Her shriek was earsplitting, drawing the gaze of almost everyone on the street. Sherlock expected her to run away, but instead she latched onto his arm, clutching it to herself like a lifeline. "I can't," she gasped, voice raw and trembling. "I- do you have any idea how hard it is? Every night... going home... doors locked, windows locked, but I can't sleep, because the images keep coming back. They were real, he really did those things... I'm so... so scared... all alone, the lights have to be on, telly on to kids' programs, because... it helps me escape... and every day, at work, the bodies, the dead people... help me," she finally breathed, the words weak and wispy.

Sherlock nodded, but John was the first to speak. "We will. We _will _help you. You won't need to be alone at night anymore, okay? You won't have to be alone, not for a single second of the day..." As his companion went on, Sherlock began gently guiding Molly towards the coffee shop. She stumbled along, splashing in puddles, now shaking with dry sobs.

"...You won't have to think about anything he said..."

"B-but it's real. He didn't just _say. _He sh-showed me. So... so... evil... it's _real, _oh, God, it's real, this is reality, there's no escaping reality, except for... insanity... I want to be mad." Her voice was sounding more and more uncharacteristic. "I want to be locked up in a hospital, make me a madwoman... am I insane? Am I crazy? Tell me I'm crazy..."

She was only asking for clarification of the truth, and she seemed to want it anyway, but before Sherlock could say anything, John, who was now right beside him, shot him a glare so fierce that he found himself struck momentarily dumb. Looking satisfied, the doctor held open the door to the coffee shop, through which he assisted a barely mobile Molly. They managed to get her to one of multiple armchairs spread out comfortably around the place before she completely stopped trying, her breathing ragged and her eyes wild.

John gave Sherlock a look that was easily translated to _just wait, _and went over to the counter to speak to the cashier, a young, rather acne-prone man with a few too many piercings for Sherlock's or any other human's taste. The two of them exchanged a few brief words, before the youth nodded and filled up a single coffee mug, adding no small measure of whipped cream on top. John nodded his thanks, passed over a five-pound note, retrieved the change that was given to him, and returned to where Sherlock and Molly sat.

The woman had calmed down a tiny bit, though her body was still trembling absurdly, and her eyes were eerily large and unblinking. She didn't react to the streaming cup that was placed on the table before her with a _clunk, _refusing to look away from Sherlock.

"Are you really going to help me?" she mumbled warily, a particularly powerful shudder running down her spine.

"Yes," John promised. "We just need you to answer one question. It might be hard, but you can take your time. The sooner you're done, though, the sooner we'll be able to set in place your protection from him. Okay?"

She nodded, quickly, like it was a dive that the wanted to be over with.

"Then... here's the question."

Sherlock was the one to ask it, despite the fact that John had provided the lead-up. He leaned forward, staring straight at her, holding her firmly in his sight. "What did Jim show you that scared you so much? That made you like this? _What did he show you, _Molly? Tell us everything you can."

Her eyelids squeezed shut for a moment, and from the strain written in every bit of her face, it was costing her greatly to rethink, relive what had hurt her so drastically. Seconds stretched into minutes, and Sherlock's short patience fuse was nearing its end. She wasn't helping. Wasn't doing anything. Did she even remember what he had asked her? He was just opening his mouth to deliver the question again when she spoke. Just two words.

"Video tapes."

"And what was _on _the video tapes?"

She went on as if she hadn't heard his question, eyes still shut, looking like a horror mannequin with her ruined makeup smeared over her face. "It was just one, really, and I thought it was weird, I didn't know why he wasn't showing me something on a DVD disc. But, no, dusty old tapes. We were going to watch a- a movie. It's was a date, at my house, not out, just the two of us cozying up. He said that he thought Sherlock would probably like them, and he laughed a little when he said that. I was a little upset by that, because I remembered that thing about him supposedly being gay, and I didn't like that he was thinking about a man when it was a night about the two of us. But then... he put it in the VCR... I still have one, I watch my old film collection on it. It started in the dark... and there was someone crying... I asked him if it was horror. I can't watch horror movies. But he said it wasn't. He said it was a documentary. So I asked what it was rated. He said that it didn't have a rating. I asked why."

A long silence stretched out here, but before it could be interrupted, she went on, each sentence coming out monotonously, mechanically.

"But then the light on the screen turned on before he could answer. There was a person. A little girl. Tied up and on some sort of metal floor. The person with the camera asked her what her name was. She said her name was Diamond... then he asked why she was crying. She said she was scared. Then he said that was good. It was funny to see people scared. He liked it when they- when they screamed." A hacking sob worked its way out of her mouth then, and Sherlock took the pause as an opportunity to glance over at John. It was a mistake: his friend looked more terrified than Sherlock had ever seen him, his eyes wide with disbelief, his face pale.

"Then the girl. Diamond. He showed her around the place they were in... her hands were tied, but he helped her. They were in a factory... he said it was where they made... m-meat products."

"Oh, God," John breathed. Sherlock heard him faintly, the majority of his concentration having returned to the terrified young woman in the armchair.

"I said that I didn't want to watch it. He said I had to. I tried to get up, but my body wasn't moving... he said it was because of something he'd put in my drink. I had to watch it. My arms and legs wouldn't work... so I tried closing my eyes... I was crying. So was the girl. But the sounds... I just heard the sounds. They... hurt... a lot. And that man making the video... he was saying _what _he was doing to her, in the factory. I could picture it... and... I was so scared... I'd never been that scared before, not ever, not in my whole life. I said that this was a horror film, not a documentary. But he said... J-Jim said that it was real. It was all real. I couldn't believe it... I still can't... the whole thing lasted a couple of hours. It ended with an ad. For bacon. From that factory. I'd seen it before, on the telly... but now... it... was really... scary... and then it ended. I asked Jim why he was showing it to me. I asked him why he'd drugged me so that I had to watch it. And he said... he said that I was his girlfriend... and that I should know everything about him... I asked him what he meant... he said... that... the person making the video... had been working... for _him..._"

"Oh my _God,_" John muttered again. Sherlock was simply disgusted. Moriarty really was awful, if he had nothing better to do than torture innocent little girls. Her name, Diamond, had obviously been a message, an indication... _a literal diamond and a figurative one... _they were being told the location of those two things. He had good as given away where they were. _A meat factory... pathetic. _

"I- I can't... remember anything else about that night... or anything really... just... lived in constant fear, like a fog, covering everything up... shattered... broken... my world is gone..."

"We'll get you people who can help you," John promised, and Sherlock noticed him tossing a tiny nod to the young cashier, who returned the gesture and picked up a telephone. "You can get better. I swear, you won't have to live like this forever, okay?"

"O-okay..."

"But there's one more thing," Sherlock began. He hadn't yet asked why she'd thought to go to Mrs. Monkford, of all people. Moriarty had obviously sent her there because he wanted to lead Sherlock the long way around, to laugh at him, but how had he...

"No," John shot back, "there's not."

"Yes, I need to ask-"

"You don't need to ask her anything else right now. Molly, thank you so much for your help. The police are coming to get you in a few minutes, and they'll take care of you. You've done amazingly."

* * *

><p>John had never seen Sherlock go to bed before that night. He himself was always the first to go, rising from his armchair, stretching, and bidding his flat mate goodnight before heading to the upstairs room. But this time, he remained sitting there as the clock ticked on. Two hours to midnight... one... zero... one past. He didn't move. He wasn't watching the silly program that was casting bright colors and canned laughter over the room, but rather staring out one of the windows that had finally been filled in with glass again after the explosion that had occurred there however many weeks ago. The onscreen happiness, lightheartedness, seemed so false. Molly's words were echoing in his mind, disjointed phrases that formed images much worse than he, even as an army vet, had previously been able to imagine. That little girl, alone in a meat factory with one of Moriarty's workers... a <em>meat <em>factory, of all places. It was disgusting. Horrendous. And the police had come for her, they'd sworn to look after her... so she, at least, wouldn't be alone tonight.

Sherlock had disappeared a few minutes previously, presumably to the bathroom... but why wasn't he returning? Unwillingly, even knowing that he was only stirred up by the day's events, he reached forward for the television remote and switched it off. Abrupt silence and darkness settled over the room. He strained his ears, listening for something, anything. "Sherlock?" he finally called a bit nervously, but he could barely hear his own voice, it was so soft. "Sherlock!" he tried again. This time, there was a muffled and certainly disgruntled grumbling noise from the direction of the bedroom.

John froze, humiliated. _He does sleep sometimes, you know. Just because he left the room without saying goodnight doesn't mean that he just got dragged off and murdered in a meat factory. Stop being ridiculous and leave him alone._

But now he was lonely. The remote was still in his hand, offering escapism, humor, whatever he wanted... but that, _entertainment, _wasn't what he wanted just then. He wanted comforting. Reassurance, in a completely childish way, that everything was going to be all right. _And you're stuck with the person in the world least likely to offer that sort of thing. Lucky you._

He stood up with a small groan and limped slightly on his way to the closer of the tall windows, pulling aside the curtain and staring out into the well-lit night city. Faint sounds traveled through the glass, sounds of partying, laughter, happiness. Somewhere in England, once upon a time, there had been a little girl named Diamond. She had lived her life out like any other child would, most likely. Had she liked her name? Had she ever even imagine that someday, simply because of it, she'd get kidnapped and murdered with the help of bacon-making machines? The thought was sickening. God, that poor thing. And now Sarah... Sarah was possibly going to go through the same thing. Or had she already? No, he couldn't imagine that. That was too horrible, far too horrible to comprehend, as was everything about the story Molly had told. He couldn't help but remember how she'd been the few other times he'd seen her- a bit ditzy, a bit nervous, a bit naive... but sweet, really. A nice woman. And now... just look at what Moriarty had done to her. Scarred her to the point where she couldn't bear to talk about it, not even to report him. The world was such a wreck of a place, really. How many other mad psychopaths were there out there, willing to do just a disgusting of things? Worse, even? It was difficult, impossible to imagine, but John knew that it was probably true. The world was a dark place. Dark and lonely...

Those people outside, the partying ones, yelling, cheering, laughing and slapping each other on the back... and the ones on the telly, cracking awful jokes and parading around in bright colors, happy colors... for an instant, he felt that he could glimpse the agony Molly was going through. It was like there was nothing holding him down to the world. There was disbelief, fear, pressing down at him from all sides in the dark room, strangling him like the long, pale fingers of the Golem extending from the darkness...

A sudden shifting noise from behind him caused him to jump, his fist tightening around the curtain as a thousand images flew through his mind, not pausing to solidify, so that he only recognized brief glimpses of shining metal chopping, grinding machines, the sleek, dark grin of a murderer, the scarlet splatter of blood against a dusty glass window, assaulting it with vibrant color...

"John?"

_Sherlock. _

He turned around to face the figure that stood several feet away, shrouded in blackness so that he could just make out the lines of the familiar blue robe he knew his flat mate to be in possession of. Hastily, he stood, letting the curtain slide shut over the image of cheeriness that was the outside street. Abruptly, things seemed quieter, enough so that he could hear Sherlock's slow, steady breathing.

"You were calling my name," were the only words he uttered. John had almost forgotten about that.

"Sorry, I didn't realize that you'd gone to bed. I'm fine, don't worry..." But something inside him was saying otherwise. The frightening emotion that had been beginning to rise up inside him was suddenly quelled in Sherlock's presence, like it had never existed in the first place, like he had just woken up from a nightmare to find himself safe in his own home. It was soothing. Relieving. But he knew in the back of his mind that as soon as he was alone again, it would return. _Stay with me? _he wanted to plead. _All night, if you have to... because if you leave, I'll be afraid... it's so stupid, so childish, but I need somebody right now..._

"No, you're not fine." Sherlock took a step closer. "You're... you're _scared, _aren't you? That story about the little girl scared you."

"Obviously I'm a bit shaken up. Anyone would be." Sherlock's pale eyes glimmered in the murky darkness. "_Almost _anyone," John amended tiredly. "I mean, it wasn't just a ghost story, was it? That person's really out there. And he has Sarah." _And we met him. _Moriarty, insane as he obviously had been, didn't seem like too much of a villain in person. Little bits of an evil nature had slipped through, certainly; he could recall the chilling singsong-turned-scream of the near-chanted _That's what people DO! _And, worse yet, the rasping promise of _I will burn... the heart... out of you. _Still, to think that little Jim from the IT had been responsible for so much death, so much agony and blood and distress...

"I suppose so," Sherlock agreed. The two of them stood there, staring at the little they could see of each other's faces. _He's not going back to bed, even though I said he could, _John thought numbly. And then words were coming from his mouth, even though he didn't mean them, even though he wanted the perfect opposite.

"I guess I'd better turn in, then. Blimey, it's almost two... all-nighters don't work well with me..." His voice sounded false, normal, when he felt the other way. He knew that he wouldn't be able to get any sleep that night; why was he kidding himself?

Sherlock wasn't fooled, either. "You're too upset to sleep," he pointed out calmly.

John found himself shrugging. "Nothing I can do about it. Might as well try."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?"

"You need company."

"I-" he broke off, squinting in disbelief at the other's faint outline. "Wait. Are you implying something? What are you trying to..." Something twisted in his stomach without his permission. It wasn't an altogether _bad _feeling, just one he didn't feel up to attempting to identify at two o'clock, any more than he wanted to figure out if Sherlock's words were suggestive or just plain clueless.

"Nothing," was the hurried, ever-so-slightly nervous response. "Nothing like that. It's just... if you wanted company... I can't afford for you to be tired in the morning, so... I'd be willing to... share my sleeping space. But if you-"

"No, that's-"

"Would rather not..."

"...Fine."

There was a longer, heavier silence there, which John finally broke with a slight cough. "If you don't mind," he mumbled hastily.

"Of course I don't mind, that's why I was offering." It was the prime spot to throw in a casual _I'd do the same for anyone. _But John knew not to expect it, because Sherlock wouldn't have done the same for anyone. He wasn't the type to offer night company; he'd sooner scoff at them and tell them exactly why the dark and silence had such an impact on the human mind, what caused fear, maybe throw in a bit of dry grumblings as to what idiots modern humans were... but this, _comforting, _was something else entirely. It was an odd thing to process, but it seemed that John really was the detective's only friend. He wasn't sure quite what to think about that.

"Well... thank you. I suppose I'll... go change, then."

"Right."

When he finally entered Sherlock's bedroom, it was to find the detective tightly curled up with his back facing the door, still in his robe, far too tense to be asleep. John couldn't help but smile a tiny bit at the stiff figure as he lifted up the edge of the sheet and slipped in under the covers. "Calm down," he muttered, turning to stare at the faint outline of the door.

The response was a faint grumble and a slight tug on the sheets. John didn't answer, just gazed into the darkness. He felt better now. Much better. Just knowing that someone else was in the room with him was comforting. _Like a kid who needs his parents. _Pathetic, perhaps, but undeniable.

It was two in the morning, and he was exhausted. Perhaps if the next thought had been given a little more time to develop and flourish, it would have brought him to some form of realization. But things couldn't always work out perfectly. And so it was that the fact sure to have a bigger impact later on occurred to him quite briefly before he drifted off.

_You and Sarah had a while to go until you were even sleeping in the same room._


	7. 7

**A/N** _Hello, audience. Including my dad. Who I just figured out is reading this. ... Yes. Wonderful, no? Anyways, OH MY GOD I JUST REALIZED THAT I PUT A DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE IN THIS CHAPTER! *is insane* Oh my god. I'm sorry. But John... can't you see him as a fan? CAN'T YOU? Nnrgh. Right. Review, please, thanks. ;D_

**Thanks to** _No reviewers this time... oh, well. _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>710_]

The next morning was a painfully bright, glaring, sore one that practically screamed for coffee. But, naturally, Sherlock, who had gotten up at six, had happened to use the last bits of it in some messed-up experiment that John didn't even try to understand- all he knew was that it deprived him of caffeine, while sending a rather nasty, smoky stench through the majority of the flat.

"And is this relevant to the case at all?" he yawned, watching the other pace back and forth, watching the ground intently.

"No, should it be? Just something that's been bothering me for a while. I had to do it at some point."

"You could have done it when there was a little more coffee in store."

"This was the morning for it."

Neither of them mentioned the previous night. There didn't seem to be any reason to, not really. There was nothing that needed to change between them, and as the sensitive area of, well, sharing a bed seemed the prime spot for such a thing to develop from. Yet John couldn't help but wonder what would happen _that_ night. _You'll just have to toughen up, that's all. Be an adult and sleep in your own damn bed. Look at Sherlock, he's not perturbed whatsoever. _That much was true. Sherlock, in fact, was bent over a rather complex structure of test tubes and what seemed to be electrical wires, intensely examining a percolating greenish-brown substance that half-filled one of the tubes. _Of course, he doesn't have a girlfriend in danger. He probably has no idea what it means to have someone you care about in a deadly situation at all. _

After a few minutes of this with no visible change, John finally leaned forward with a long sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. "Why are you doing this?" he asked simply. "Are you avoiding the diamond case?"

"Of course not. I told you, this was the right morning for the experiment."

"Yeah, okay, but... that damned _meat factory. _Do you realize that he probably has Sarah there? Don't you have any urge at all to get to her before he puts her into some kind of- of grinder, or slices her up into..." He trailed off, nausea rising up inside of him as the putrid idea snaked through his mind. It was awful. Just too awful.

"I don't think he's intending to..."

"You don't think. _You don't think. _Well, I'd rather not risk the chance, if you know what I mean. I'll phone Molly, ask her what factory it was. She'll know if there was a recognizable ad at the end. Then we'll head over there with the police and rescue her and this can be over by the end of today. All right?"

"Go ahead and call her if you like, but it's only going to serve to upset," Sherlock pointed out almost boredly, carefully adding what was either sugar or salt to the muddy liquid and bending down, leaning forward until his eyes were level with the tube to watch it.

"At least we'll have the location."

"Already do."

"What?" Nearly knocking over the coffee table, John rose from the sofa abruptly. "You know where he has her? How? No, never mind that, let's go! Let's go now!"

"Don't be hasty."

"Sherlock- I know this is hard for you, but _listen- _she's in there, she's in danger, and if we don't get her now then he might kill her. Try, just _try _for one little second to imagine what it would be like if someone you loved was in danger. Is it possible for your mind to _fathom _that? If you could lose that person at any moment, and they were someone you really, truly cared about, and you knew that they were going through hell... can you just _try _to _think _about that? Or do you have too many _sociopathic _limitations?" John was growing more and more furious, feeling the burn that meant his face was reddening, letting his hands clench into fists. Sherlock had frozen, was now perfectly still, bent over the test tube with his back turned to John, not a single dark, curly hair moving. "You really don't, do you? You're really incapable of that. You're not even _human, _really, are you?" Mrs. Hudson would be able to hear him yelling from downstairs, but he didn't care. He just _didn't care. _"You can't- your stupid perfect mind can't even... _comprehend _that. You are such a... _get some emotions, _why don't you? Try caring! And if that's too hard for you, that simple little thing, then just pretend. Just _pretend _that you had a person who you really had _feelings for _in danger. Possible death. Just bloody pretend!"

The silence after this seemed to ring. John was heaving with heated rage, his teeth clamped together, staring at the stiff back of that robe, a bit bluer than the scarf he knew so well, but still tinged with foggy, distant, _cold _gray. Why did everything about Sherlock have to be so cold? If he had been a piece of ice, John would have taken this chance to dash him against the sidewalk, watch him shatter into a million tiny, glimmering, reflective shards. And it would have felt good. But he was an adult, and even if he was going to shout in a ridiculous manner, that didn't mean he couldn't restrain himself physically. But not to say he didn't have the _fuel _to...

"I don't have to pretend."

Just like that, all the red-hot energy building up inside of him was gone. Gone. He felt oddly empty, hollow, as he slowly sank back onto the couch. Like there was a whirling vortex inside of him, sucking up emotion, thought. _You're overreacting, _some little part of him noted, but he didn't pay it much attention, because he couldn't remember why he was overreacting, or how, or what to. Five words echoed in his head. _I don't have to pretend. _

_I should say something. _He should, he really should. But what? There was nothing to say, not really. No way to respond to that. _I don't have to pretend. _And he could remember quite clearly the expression on Sherlock's face back at the pool... when he'd pulled back the coat, revealed the explosives. Confused for the briefest possible instant, then afraid. _Afraid. _He hadn't thought much of it had the time- hadn't been in a situation to over-contemplate anything, really, seeing as he was strapped up to a load of Semtex with a laser sighter flickering around his chest. _I don't have to pretend. _

_Just pretend that you had a person who you really had feelings for in danger._

_Pretend._

_I don't have to._

_A person you really had feelings for..._

"Davidston Farms," Sherlock finally muttered when the silence had stretched on long enough for his liking. He couldn't see John from his position in the kitchen, but he knew that he'd be staring silently, probably with his mouth gaping a tiny bit, looking utterly disbelieving. _I'm not that far from human, you know, _Sherlock wanted to growl. _You don't have to act like it's some sort of godly act. You do realize I was worried about you, don't you? You do realize that I actually do consider you my friend? You do realize that I..._

"Davidston Farms?" a tentative voice from behind him repeated. John wasn't yelling anymore- in fact, his tone was rather muted, reluctant, like a child who had just been reprimanded heavily for something or other.

"That's where she's at. Davidston Farms Preparation Facility."

"...And how do you know that?"

"Whomever Moriarty hired to kill that little girl was quite messy. Mrs. Lestrade found a bit of what was undoubtedly human blood in her weekly package of locally cut bacon. She seems to rather like bacon... and always gets it from Davidston Farms. That's where we have to go tonight."

"Tonight. Why do we have to wait until tonight?" Despite the words he was speaking, John's tone was remarkably patient. He was clearly recovering from the blow Sherlock had just delivered, possibly trying to interpret it. _There's nothing to interpret, though, _he told himself. _It shouldn't be a surprise to him at all that you care about him. Of course you do. He's your little blogger._

"We can't just go barging in there with the police, John. Moriarty is like a nervous cat. If half the town comes at it with the nets and the spray, and it'll be gone before you know it. But if you're gentle, if just one or two people it's already familiar for it go and try to coax it into a carrier... much easier to round up."

"God, I wasn't thinking about catching him. More about saving her. We'll get another chance for that kind of thing, won't we? He's not just going to leave, that's for sure. Please, Sherlock. Let's just save her this time."

"He won't kill her for no reason," he insisted stoically. "If we don't go now, things'll only get worse. The first time, his hostages were people we didn't know, people we didn't care about. Now it's the woman who probably has the most significance in your life other than your sister." For some reason, that sentence was a bit difficult to get out. But he shook it off. It was just reluctance to put out words that could be so inflammatory to John if spoken wrongly, that was all. "Who do you think it will be next? Harry? Mycroft?" It wasn't likely- near-impossible, in fact- that his brother could manage to be captured, even by Moriarty, but he couldn't put out the last word, the person who was most likely to be kidnapped. _You. _He couldn't afford that. Learning about John's capture as he saw him standing feet away was one thing- a horrible, torturous enough one, at that. But if his doctor was taken, so that he didn't know where he was, he was _missing, _out of Sherlock's grasp and not necessarily retrievable... he'd go mad. Even the thought was to poisonously inconceivable to put into words, and that was why he didn't try to.

"...How am I supposed to make it until tonight? I can't go to work. To hell with the money, I can't stare at her desk for another day now that I know where she is. Come on, there must be some way. We can completely close of and surround the factory, so that there's not a single way..."

Sherlock, still with his back to John, was already shaking his head. "He'll find one. He always does. Always."

"You don't know that."

"It's not hard to work out. Our minds flow in rather similar ways, I'm afraid."

"Well... really. I can't make it through... twelve hours... more... my God..."

Sherlock shrugged. "Think of something you've been wanting to do for a while, why don't you? No day like this to pursue it."

"What, like experimenting with caffeine? Really, though, how can you expect me to concentrate on anything?"

"I can't." If John was the missing one- that was the closest sort of empathy Sherlock could come with, though he was sure John was much more to he, Sherlock, than Sarah was to him- then it would be an impossibility to focus. It was hard enough to think _with _him here, just knowing that he was pained so much. It was an odd, intrusive thing, to have concerns for another person invading personal thoughts. Sherlock wasn't sure he liked it all that much, either, but he couldn't control it. That was probably the worst part of it, too.

_But if you could turn it on and off... would you? Would you willingly let yourself escape from feeling for his emotions?_

Why did humans such to be such a flawed, selfless species? It was quite interfering.

"I can't expect you to concentrate on anything," he repeated, "but I can expect you to try. I am, aren't I?"

"You're not the one-" John cut off his speech awkwardly, rather like skidding to a halt moments before running off a cliff. _You're not the one whose girlfriend is missing. _That was what he'd been about to say. Sherlock knew it. And yet he'd stopped... why? Why had he stopped? Had he been avoiding another five-word emotional outburst?

_Stop _worrying _about him. He isn't your concern right now. Focus. _

He sighed through his nose and turned his back on the combination of corn syrup, salt, coffee, ketchup, and a certain brand of lipstick that was now stewing oddly over its burner. It had to sit for an hour, anyways, before he could determine its definite miscibility. _What now? _He should talk to John, he really should. But there was nothing to say. All they had to do was wait. Wait until 23:00, when there would be just an hour- plenty of time for the walk to Davidston Farms Preparation Facility. He'd be there at midnight. No, _they _would. He and John. He had to include them both in the equation. Sherlock and Moriarty would be facing each other again, but this time, the former would have an ally added, and the latter one less a hostage. No, there would be Sarah. Sarah Sawyer, who Sherlock would leave behind without a second thought, but who was important enough to John that he'd have to stay behind for her. He wouldn't be able to handle living with a depressed man, especially _this _depressed man, and that or worse was certain to be the result if Sarah was lost.

"Why don't you watch one of those ridiculous things of yours?" he suggested vaguely, glancing at John, whose head was down, out of the corner of his eyes. "James Bond... come on, you're always up for James Bond."

A quick glance upwards. "Are you trying to cheer me up or something?"

"Or... that other one, with the time traveler and the public call booth," Sherlock went on determinedly, unwilling to respond. "With the... the Dull-eeks..."

"Daleks, that's Doctor Who. And I'm honestly not in the mood, I have to say."

"...Good, that's good. It was a bit childish, anyways."

John heaved a huge sigh, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and settled for a head shake. "You _are _trying to cheer me up," he muttered after a brief stretch of uncertain hesitation.

"Well, I..." Sherlock gave a tiny cough, digging his fingernails deep into his palms, hidden in the deep pockets of the blue robe he wore. "I don't want you moping around all day, it doesn't really add to the atmosphere."

"You'd be whining about that usually, not trying to get me to watch Doctor Who. Sherlock, tell me. Are you feeling alright?"

"Of course I am. You don't know what you're talking about," he shot back, driven far beyond the very edges of his comfort zone. How was he supposed to explain why he wanted John to be happy? It just... it just was that way. Not his fault. Not under his control. "I'm going to get dressed," he finally muttered, striding out of the room with something that, had it come from any man other than Sherlock Holmes, might have been a huff.

John was left to stare rather bemusedly at the wall. He slowly sat back in the couch, utterly and completely baffled by this new attitude Sherlock had taken on. So much more... uncertain, less smooth than usual, stumbling along with a sort of... almost _clumsiness _to his words and actions. It must have something to do with the previous night. Had the incident really unsettled him so much? John was prepared to forget it completely if he had to. But Sherlock... seemed put off beyond put off. _I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. I'd take it back if I had to... I'd go through that night alone if it could help you straighten yourself out again._

Of course, a Sherlock with emotions could only be an improvement, couldn't it? Right. _Right. _Why did those words ring false?

_Because some sort of soppy, sweet Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock at all, that's why. _No, it wouldn't. It would be a _better _person. Of course it would. _But you don't want that. Why don't you want that?_

_Because it wouldn't be _Sherlock. _And I want him to keep being Sherlock. I don't want him to change._

Life, he decided, was stupid and confusing.

The day twisted by in relatively unbroken silence. Sherlock had nothing to say, and John, who was teeming with questions, couldn't put a voice to any of them. The result: a lopsided lack of words that filled the flat with pulsating nothingness. The television remained switched off, as did the computers, and only the occasional text brought either of their attention to the screens of their mobile phones. The clock ticked onwards, and John watched it with a mixture of dread and anticipation, anxiety and excitement. He wanted it to be time now, yet he didn't ever want it to be. All he knew was that he needed Sarah back, now. Have her be there, real and material and accessible. _Alive. _That was all he really wanted, was for her to be alive, safe, comfortable.

It was as much as he'd want for anyone.

He hesitated at that point in his thoughts, feeling confused, caught up, as though he'd been running and tripped over a jutting bit of sidewalk. _For anyone? _Shouldn't he want _more _for her than for other people? But... what more was there to want? Safety, right? To have her be safe and happy. There wasn't anything else needed. Nothing else required.

And so it was back to the first cycle of thoughts, for an hour, two, three, until it was late evening and John felt as if he might have been going crazy. He hadn't eaten all day, and his stomach was letting him know that very clearly. In just- he checked the clock- two and a half hours, he'd be there at Davidston Farms, and to face something as surely nerve-wracking as he would then without food was by no means a good idea. Still, he couldn't get himself to be hungry, hard as he tried. Envisioning delicious-tasting cuisine, imagining starvation, trying to concentrate as hard as he could on the gnawing sensation growing inside of him... nothing worked. Hard as he tried, imagining actually _eating _something never failed to result in a pang of nausea.

_Why? Why does my body have to work like this?_

Since John occupied to couch, Sherlock had passed the long hours of daylight sitting at the desk, watching out the window as the sun slowly completed its arch and considering the outcome of the experiment he had finished earlier. Not only had the combination of things looked very different from the reference he was comparing them to, but, as proven by a few quick tests, the mixture itself when taken with the same lipstick-to-ketchup ratio he'd applied wasn't poisonous at all. In other words, Lestrade's teenage daughter and the friend she'd had overnight hadn't just been experimenting with household products and making them into as disgusting a concoction as possible. The cause of the severe reaction in them both had, in fact, been an unknown substance that they hadn't admitted to adding... most likely a drug. It wouldn't be easy to tell the Detective Inspector, especially since he didn't realize that Sherlock was investigating such a case in the first place, the latter having formed the premise of his experimentation from what was in the pockets of the coat Lestrade had left hanging on his chair after work hours. John would have called what Sherlock had taken upon himself to find out 'snooping' or 'interfering,' but it was helping, really. People ought to know if their children were engaged in illegal activity.

It was all a distraction, though. He knew it was, and he didn't mentally try to deny it. The little mini-cases that he enjoyed working his way through never cropped up if he wasn't trying to keep his mind off something. And they hadn't at all before Mike Stamford introduced him to John all those months ago. It was, at times, surprisingly counterproductive to have a partner.

_Counterproductive... but worth it. _

Worth it why?

_Because it is. _

Not very precise of you, Logic Master.

_I don't care._

Oh, don't you?

_No. _

Why's that?

_Because if John wasn't here, what would I have to be working towards? _

What does that mean? There would be everything. The cleanliness of the world. The support of the law.

_Dull._

Oh, so John's not dull somehow?

_No. He's the opposite of dull._

How's that?

_He gives depth to my life. Stop asking questions._

You're talking to yourself.

_I'm thinking to myself._

Ooh, clever.

_Go away._

That was the sort of thing that filled his day, dancing about but always, somehow, returning to the topic of John. Why was that? _Why? _It seemed that, out of nowhere, his importance had increased. Not that before it had been small at all, because it hadn't. It hadn't ever been, really... no. There was something. He'd been dispensable before... before he'd killed the taxi cab driver. That had been the moment, with the damn shock blanket, looking around in the parking lot and setting eyes on him, on John, seeing him, knowing that he'd _killed _someone to save Sherlock...

_Why did he _do _that?_

20:00... 21:00... 22:00... John's legs were starting to cramp, not to mention his thoughts. It would seem that a full day truly would pass like this. Then the minutes were passing by, and despite the horrible, dragging consistency of the previous hours, time was now sprinting, flying along so fast that, suddenly, he wanted it to stop. Out of nowhere, he was scared. Not because of whatever he and Sherlock were sure to face in the factory, though that in itself was alarming enough. No, it was finding Sarah that he dreaded. Because what if she couldn't be brought back whole? Surely it was better to sit here, unknowing, than to find her bloody, cold corpse-

_No. _Oh, God, how could he even imagine that? His stomach gave an indecent flip that was eerily timed with the flip of the last three numbers on the digital clock. 22:59 no more.

_It's time. _

"Sherlock."

The detective nodded, not looking away from the window he had been concentrating on all day. "Are you ready?"

It was a rather out of place inquiry that John couldn't help but shoot him an odd look for. A rather swift odd look, in fact, and one that gave his neck a bit of a painful crick. Hissing through his teeth, he raised a hand to it, watching as Sherlock stood up and paced over to the door, whipping on his coat and reaching for the scarf. "Let's go," he called over to John. "No time to be wasted. Moriarty will be expecting us around now..."

"And you know that how?" John asked almost exasperatedly despite his inner turmoil, retrieving his own jacket.

Sherlock turned to face him, and he took that moment to really absorb his flat mate, knowing that, after tonight, there was a possibility that things would be different. If the two of them or Sarah got harmed- and, really, the chance that none of them would was next to nothing- there would be a change in 221B's air. And he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Sherlock was at his best now, eyes bright, now sliding his hands into dark gloves, smirking a little bit as he glanced up at John through the spill of curly hair cascading down his pale forehead. But it wasn't a smirk. Not quite. A little more genuine than that, something more than the usual superior look he shot others.

Something that could look happy.

_Don't get hurt, _John thought suddenly, desperately. It was a thought out of nowhere, but now it was frantic, clawing, boiling inside his chest and stomach. _If you get hurt, I won't be able to stand it. I won't. I need you to survive this one intact for me. _

But Sherlock couldn't hear him. He was speaking, however, answering the other question. Explaining why he knew their nemesis would be ready for him.

"Jim Moriarty and I are similar men in many ways, John. We know how each other thinks."

"No, you're not," John found himself saying without trying to. "You're... just because you're both... geniuses... you're better than him. You know you're better than him... you do, don't you?" he added in disbelief when he got no reaction. "You do realize how much more... good of a person you are?"

Sherlock's only reaction was to ever so slightly widen that little smile.


	8. 8

**A/N **_Chapters 8-10 are my favorite of the bunch, so here goes... please please please please please please please please please please please review? This is by far my most alerted story, but my least reviewed multi-chap, so... moo?_

**Thanks to** _Idunn_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>810_]

The light sprinkling of rain from earlier had intensified to a much heavier, steady patter, the sort that formed dark, reflective puddles on the sidewalk, staining the world with the mirrored amber and red of headlights, throwing everything into deep, sharp contrast. Everything about it, despite the late hour, felt normal and real. Cars sped along, honking at each other, teenagers with umbrellas shouted words indistinguishable over the pound of rain, the occasional beat of pop music slipped out of a restaurant or house as the door was opened, releasing warm, dry people into the cold, wet night. But they didn't have to endure it for long, John thought a bit sourly (his attitude could easily be owed to his empty stomach). Practically as soon as the rain hit them, they were inside their cars, turning on the heaters and heading towards home. They weren't on their way to a meat factory to rescue their possibly dead girlfriend, trailing as fast as they could manage after a very impatient sociopath. Just to imagine how wonderful it would be if perhaps he'd been out with her, with Sarah, and was heading back without a care in the world except for perhaps the state of the refrigerator when he returned to 221B the next day... because he would be spending the night with her, of course...

Wait. No, there was something wrong with that scenario. What was it? There was something he had here that he wouldn't there... something... but what? Danger? Excitement? Sure, they were motivating, but there was something vital to a relaxing night, too. No, there was some other essential feeling flowing through him now that he wouldn't be experiencing otherwise...

_Don't be stupid. You know full well what you're thinking of. _

Yes. In all honesty, he did know. He knew because he was staring straight at it, because it was mere feet before him, striding rapidly with its long coat fluttering in the rainy wind, a tall, dark, lean figure silhouetted against the chaotic lights and sounds of the busy city...

Indeed, he did know.

_Know what?_

For an instant, John was confused, suspended in the sort of puzzlement that one might get late at night, when they had just been whisked back from the very edge of sleep, fragments of dreams running through a confused mind like silt through tightly clenched fingers, until there was nothing left save a vague sense of loss... that was how John felt. But only for an instant, before he gave his head a sharp shake and owed the odd emotional flicker to his zombie-like day of doing absolutely nothing. He moved a bit faster to catch up with Sherlock, who managed to pack in quite a bit of speed for his casual-looking pace.

"Can you possibly move with a little _more _haste?" he shot sarcastically.

"Precisely my thoughts, word for word, in fact. I must be rubbing off on you." As per usual, his tone was lost on Sherlock.

"I have a bad leg," he growled defensively.

"It hasn't acted up for, what, two months now? Don't whine. You could use a bit of exercise in your life."

"_I _could. Like you haven't spent the last few days on that damn couch-"

"At least I can move quickly when the time demands it," Sherlock pointed out crisply, effectively ending the brief conversation. John felt irritability twinge through him, and recognized that it could easily be owed to not having eaten. _You really are an idiot. How could you just sit there? Now you probably won't be able to concentrate or do anything useful..._

Concentrate. _Concentrate. _

"Oh, God, I forgot the gun," he breathed, frustration crashing down on him. He wished for a moment that he could rewind time and do something with his day- prepare a bit more, eat- but it was too late for that. He'd have to cope with the meager readiness he was able to muster. Emotionally, at least, he was as close to prepared as was possible.

"Not a problem," Sherlock replied lazily, patting the side of his coat. John raised his eyebrows.

"I didn't see you put it in there..."

"You _don't see _lots of things. It's one of the infuriating things about you... well, about everyone," the detective amended casually, not bothering to look at John as he continued to stride forward at a painfully rapid pace.

"Yeah, well, just one of them," John muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and hurried on.

Sherlock didn't miss it. "Just one," he agreed, his tone low and amused. Then he whisked around a corner, John hurrying after him, and there it was, towering over the smaller buildings surrounding it, looking tall, dark, and menacing in the rainy darkness, illuminating only by the faint glow of streetlights.

_Davidston Farms Preparation Facility. _

Sarah was there. She'd been there the whole time, mere blocks from Baker Street. John swallowed heavily. Everything about the rain-slicked surface and shadowed of the massive factory screamed that it was very much closed. Closed, off-limits, dead. But she was in there. Alive, breathing... she had to be. Maybe even conscious, struggling, wildly attempting to get away, to get back to her life- to get back to _him..._

"Ready?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John was trying to formulate a plan- _go in, stick together, find her first, then worry about the diamond... see if we can corner Moriarty, call in the police this time, get to her right away, though, get to her, get to her, get to her and save her and rescue her from him..._

But plans were useless when dealing with the enemy that they were. He knew that. So he just nodded, slowly. "Ready."

Without another word, Sherlock promptly whisked around the corner of the building, out of the blazingly wet streetlights and into a dark, drippy side alley. He approached a heavily graffiti-ed door and laid his gloved hand against it. It was coated in every paint possible- pink flowers, blue streaks, bright red initials sprayed on wildly- but John noticed something else on it. Something hidden between the layers, in a very familiar color. Bright yellow. The shade used by the Black Lotus.

He opened his mouth to comment, but, upon looking over, he discovered that Sherlock already had the A-Z in his free hand, and was withdrawing his other from the door's surface in order to flip through the book.

"What does it say?" John asked nervously, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

"Crystal Palace... Colden," was the muttered response, and Sherlock's eyebrows drew together slightly.

"Crystal palace colden? Because that tells us so much. It's probably just some doodling or something... not important, anyways, let's keep going-"

"Crystal is easy enough," Sherlock breathed, raising his hand to touch the side of the building, running his fingers gently along it. "Diamond... colden... _colden..._"

"Could mean 'cold,'" John, who was starting to feel the sting of rain through his jacket and shirt, suggested half-sarcastically.

To his surprise and slight alarm, Sherlock's head snapped around. "This is a meat factory," he half-whispered.

"Yes, and...?"

"Cold," was the only syllable to issue from the other, who also allowed himself a tiny smile. "Let's go, this could get interesting."

"Interesting? Remember, we're here for Sar-"

In his typical sociopathic manner, Sherlock didn't give him any fragment of attention, instead wrapping his fingers around the padlock hanging on the door and pulling at it sharply. It jerked open with a heavy clatter that was barely audible over the rain. John watched with wide eyes as the door was calmly shouldered open.

"But... that..."

"He was expecting us," was the simple reply. Nervously, he stepped inside after Sherlock, a solid chill settling over him along with a generous layer of darkness. A final strip of cloudy midnight light, sliding over the concrete floor, shrunk and vanished as the door clanged shut behind them, sealing out the rain and rendering everything perfectly black and silent.

But only for half an instant. With a staticky splutter, a line of yellow-white lights flared on along the towering high, almost cave-like ceiling. John flinched and took a half-step closer to Sherlock, looking around wildly as the whole place was illuminated. An unreasonable, restless _fear _was crawling up inside of him, and he couldn't ignore it. He wanted to cling to someone like a child during a scary film, but he couldn't, because the only one near him was Sherlock, who certainly wasn't the type to be clung to. _And you have to be the brave one here. For God's sake, you're an army man. So go on and find her. Save her, if you care about her so much. _

And yet there was something undeniably _creepy _about the nighttime factory that hadn't been present at the pool. Those lines of machines, silent under heavy tarps... had one of them been the one to murder the girl with its blades? If they didn't make it out of here, would he, John, suffer the same fate? Would _Sherlock?_

There was something about that thought that was completely numb. He couldn't even bring himself close enough to the imagined scenario to envision a thing about it. _Does that mean I don't care, if I don't feel anything? _But, no, there was something eerily heavy about the prospect that hinted at another layer of hidden emotion. Something about it was just too... too _no _to even be able to approach. Sherlock _would _get out of there, even if John had to sacrifice himself for it.

_If you have to sacrifice Sarah?_

Unwilling to think of such things now, he instead turned to Sherlock and spoke in a murmur that managed to reach every corner of the massive, stark yet shadowy room. "What do we do now?"

"Cold," the detective smirked back. "Use your brain, John. You know where they chill the meat."

"You think they're _freezing _her?"

"No, I think they're keeping her... fresh for us..."

"_What?_"

"She's still alive, probably." The cool air of the _probably _sent an angry tremor down John's spine. "But I think Moriarty has a specific meeting place in mind..."

"And that is...?"

"Where they keep their products ready for transition, John. The... holding cell, you could say. A place like this is bound to have a huge one..."

"A huge _what?_"

Sherlock's mouth curled up at the edges even more, an expression that didn't come near reaching his eyes. "The freezer, John. The walk-in freezer."

"...Crystal cold." John held back a shiver. "So... the diamonds, the literal and the figurative... he's keeping them in a freezer."

A nod. "What better place to hide a transparent gemstone than amongst piles of ice? Of course, I'm sure Sarah will be a good deal easier to find... as soon as we pick her up, we can split up, try and find the stone. Oh, and take the gun, you'll need it more than I will. If and when one of us meets up with Moriarty..." He hesitated then, turning to stare John in the eyes. "If you're the one to see him first, I need you to shoot him. You've killed without hesitation before. But..." His gaze flickered around the huge room. "But check for anything aimed at you first."

"What, killing him isn't worth it if he takes me to? Don't be ridiculous," John half-laughed, his tone not at all humorous.

"I'm not the one being ridiculous!" Sherlock snarled back. His voice was surprisingly sharp. "No, it's not worth it. We need to get out of this alive, and Moriarty is only one man."

"_I'm _only one man, Sherlock."

"Well, you're..."

The silence that fell after that served as a sort of reminder as to how dangerous of a situation they were currently in, and John made a note to ask Sherlock about his cryptic excuses later, when they had time. If they both got out of this alive. _Not just both; all three. _Sarah mattered, too. She was more essential than John was in the equation here.

"The walk-in freezer," he finally repeated, nearly jumping at the seemingly amplified volume of his own voice. "Do you have any idea where that might be?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but instead made his way over to the wall, each footstep echoing heavily on the concrete floor. John was painfully aware that if there was a sniper hidden somewhere, they were sitting ducks.

"My gun," he hissed, hurrying in the detective's wake. "You said I could have it?"

"Gun? Oh, yes..." Not looking behind him, Sherlock fished in one of his deep coat pockets for a moment, then pulled the weapon out and held it over his shoulder. John took it, checking briefly to make sure it was loaded. He'd be shocked if the bullets contained in its metal shell weren't used up by the end of the night.

"Ten minutes to midnight." He looked up to see Sherlock checking the time on his cell phone before tucking it away again. "Ten minutes to find the freezer."

"And how are we going to do that? This place is gigantic."

"Easy. Floor map." A broad gesture towards the wall indicated just that hanging there in a metal frame, detailing the sprawling expanse of the factory in clear, color-coded simplicity. Moving in closer, John looked hard at it over Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes immediately finding the bright red dot labeled _You are here. _They were in the middle of a pink-tinged section labeled _Processing. _To their right was the green _Wrapping _and yellow _Loading, _to their left a thin orange area labeled _Delivery, _and, all along the north side, a decently wide strip of space colored baby blue. Small, black capital letters printed ever so neatly on the paper deemed it _Storage. _Meat, of course, would be stored in the cold.

"Every area has easy access to it," Sherlock pointed out, giving a small nod to the little open-door symbols that lined the bottom side of the freezer. "But only one entrance in each area, and double doors by the look of it... it's very cold in there; they don't want it to leak out, which is why they've practically barricaded it."

"And who says they have?"

"The doors say they have." Without another word, he turned around and made his way over to the darkened wall, just out of reach of the lights, that was farthest away from them. For the first time, John noticed a large set of double doors some ways down it, sealed up very tightly, and with _caution _side plastered all over them, so that they seemed to be solidly striped black and yellow.

_She's in there, _John found himself thinking, and the same desperate clenching feeling he'd felt when they left 221B was back, and more frantic than ever. He wanted to suspend the moment right there, before anything was confirmed, before anyone else was hurt, in that one little instant where anything could be possible.

Time was so cruel.

Because, of course, the way of things didn't allow him to save that little fragment of his life, to isolate and preserve it for as long as possible. John didn't, at that moment, fully realize the horror he was soon to experience. He was emotionally innocent, as much as a soldier and companion of Sherlock Holmes (not to mention one who'd been done up in an explosive parka by one of the most dangerous men on the planet) could be.

Nobody he truly loved had died.

Not yet.

Sherlock took hold of the left door's thick, heavy bar and pulled, the slender muscles of his arms flexing under the dark coat draped over them. Slowly, it began to creak open, and a low hiss came with it, as well as a blast of chilled fog that quickly lessened to a wisp. As if in direction, the lights along the factory's ceiling went dark, leaving only a cold, faint, pale blue-white light coming from inside the freezer. There was no doubt that Moriarty wanted them there. John took a low, deep breath, and the air flowing into his lungs was cold, absolutely, icy cold. A pale mist emanated from between Sherlock's lips, twisting in the air before evaporating in the relative warmth.

"This is it," was all John could make himself say.

"That it is," the other acknowledged. The two men looked at each other for a moment, gray-green eyes staring hard into bluish hazel, and then turned and, as one, took a step forward.

The door groaned and screeched closed as soon as Sherlock let it go, shutting out the last of the rest of the factory, which now seemed positively tame compared to the cool, creeping menace of the freezer. John could hear his own absurdly rapid breathing, each exhalation seeming overly noisy. The only other sound was a low humming that might not be noticed at first, but which filled every bit of the chamber with a soft buzz. He recognized it as machines working to keep the place cold… icy cold… crystal cold.

_The diamond is here._

It was only then that John comprehended just how impossible of a task they'd been given—locate a 10-karat, transparent gemstone in the midst of what seemed to be miles of ice. So much ice… the walls were white and rough with built-up clumps of the stuff, the ground seemed positively snowy, and the heaps and heaps of _meat—_packaged in hundreds, thousands of plastic wrappers with cow icons on them—were all encrusted with a glittery frost. Everything was in cleanly five-foot mounds, and John supposed the organization of it was neat, but it wasn't like he could admire it. It came together to form a sort of frozen-over maze; he could only see a couple of stacks in. Anything could be hidden behind the factory's products. _Sarah could be hidden behind them._

"Well," Sherlock began, boldly speaking the first word in the freezer that somehow commanded silence, "it's obvious what we ought to look for first."

"Sarah," John agreed, but Sherlock wasn't done.

"…the diamond."

He could have said a million things, about disbelief or disgust, irritation or amazement—but what came out was simply, "No, I won't. I won't search out a _rock _when I have my girlfriend to find."

"John, _listen—_Moriarty will be expecting us to go for her, and we have to—"

"I don't give a _shit _what Moriarty will be expecting!" John yelled.

There was an instant where the two of them were as rigid as the other contents of the room, the doctor's face highly colored while the detective's had gone quite pale. It wasn't the first time he'd yelled at Sherlock. But it was clear that this time, this wasn't about a hard day at work or refusing to buy the damn milk again or finding half a body in the refrigerator. This was about being in a possible life or death situation, and choosing emotional value over money or honor. This was about making _moral _choices, one thing that the world's only consulting detective, however brilliant he might be, just couldn't seem to get a grasp on.

"Fine." When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was soft and silky, at a level that John had never heard before, not to mention one that struck him as solidly as a slap in the face. "If you want to be an idiot and waste your life, it's your choice. I'm not your mother and I'm not going to try and convince you to be more prudent, because in the end, you'll always be as stupid as the rest of them, won't you? Take your gun and go find your girlfriend. Though I doubt she'll be in a state to thank you."

And then, practically before John had finished processing the words he was speaking, he was gone.

_Wait. No._

Perhaps it was the chill of the frozen air, but the furious heat that had risen up inside him seemed to dissipate at a too-fast rate, leaving him standing there rather weakly, clutching a gun, completely alone among the piles of bacon.

_Sherlock can't be far away, _he began thinking swiftly. _Oh, God, I'm stupid, why did I do that? Why did I? Now he just—well, he was just being childish, that's not my fault, I should have known he'd take it upon himself to be Mr. Superior, now I'm stuck here… doesn't he realize that this isn't a game anymore? If I die here, then he'll be sorry… maybe he won't be, I wouldn't put that past him..._

Gritting his teeth, he gripped his gun more tightly and turned sharply to the right, steeling himself. Sherlock could find his stupid diamond; Sarah was far more important at the moment, and he could see that at least. He wouldn't leave her behind. The detective could look after himself. He always did, after all. He might even be better off without John's 'help...'

These thoughts and all others were wiped from his mind in the next instant.

It took him a while, even with his army-trained reflexes, to let the massive shock wave of the sight greeting him fully diminish. A huge something seemed to have completely removed his insides, leaving a screamingly hollow space behind, forcing him to begin to double over, nearly dropping the gun, vaguely marveling at how the middle section of his torso seemed to have completely disappeared. His eyes unfocused and refocused over and over until he was gripped by a ripple of nausea. Never in his life could he remember so detesting a color. But this, what he saw now, was _putrid. _Red, but _light _red, almost pink, disgustingly watered-down as it rain in small rivulets over the ice. Almost strawberry-hued- not real strawberry, but faux, high-fructose corn syrup laced _fakeness. _Unreality. Fake. False. Untrue.

_No. This. Isn't. Real._

_I'm dreaming. I'm going to wake up in my bed and this never will have been anything beyond a nightmare, no stupid missing diamond, no goddamn missing Sarah..._

There was nothing to confirm that it was her, of course. It could be anyone at the end of that twisting trail of blood. Anyone...

_But you know the truth already, don't you? So there's no reason to go around that corner. None at all. Go back and get Sherlock..._

_She could be hurt. Not gone yet. Just hurt. _

That thought was enough to send him practically skidding as he pushed himself forwards, following the spider web-like red lines in the manner of a hunting dog hot on the trail of its quarry. The ice around the blood was slushy, and he slipped up a bit, catching himself on the edge of one of the meat piles and sending a few packages sliding off, pulling himself around, lifting up his eyes to see-

_She's dead. _

Undoubtedly, irreversibly. He didn't realize he was on the ground, reaching for her, until she was in his arms, and he would have recognized that mane of ice-coated dark blonde hair anywhere... he couldn't turn her over. She was stiff, but still warm, killed recently... this scrolled vaguely through the back of his mind, but the rest was a massive, cottony blank, unthinking, unseeing, unknowing... _I don't want to see her face. Don't let me see her face... _she couldn't be gone. How could she be _gone? _There must be a way to turn it around, to make things so that this had never happened... surely there was... out of nowhere, some part of him recognized that he was holding a corpse, and he jerked back, revulsion powering the movement, so that she collapsed forward, and for a moment, just the briefest second, he caught a glimpse of one of her eyes... there was nothing there... blank... dead... _dead..._

Numb.

Numb.

So numb that he had hardly registered the sound of the gunshot before the pain struck.


	9. 9

**A/N** _Since this is my only Sherlock story, I'm afraid it's going to have to be the one to receive my reaction to seeing "A Scandal in Belgravia" FOUR TIMES yesterday. So, allow me to just- SADWEYGARTHFDGZNJEAAUYJSGRFL;UHWSroyhq$aeOTGhrjJUW7YTSEDGBHNJTuSRG IT IS BEAUTIFUL GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE SHWATSONLOCK DID YOU SEE IT DID YOU SEE IT JEALOUS JOHN OH MY GOD I SWEAR THIS IS NOT EVEN MY FANGIRL MIND TWISTING THINGS THEY ARE MAKING IT SO DAMN CANON AND AND SHERLOCK WAS SO SWEET WITH MOLLY AND ADLER WAS ALL FWAH AND LIKE MYCROFT WAS BEING EPIC AND MORIARTY FAIL ANTICLIMAX CELL PHONE RINGER SHOES, HE WILL TURN THEM INTO SHOES AND OH MY GOD LESTRADE. And... yeah... can't wait for HotB next week ;D And I think that's all. But... wow... that was freaking epic. Anyways. Er, enjoy the chapter. Ooh, and review, pretty please :3 And Happy New Year! _

**Thanks to **_Vamsi and Magpieintheshadow_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>910_]

Sherlock, however, was at the very edges of his senses. Hyper-aware. And so when the sound crackled through the air, a single, harsh bolt of noise, his mind immediately led him down the pathway saying what it meant. And then there was a flash of something he'd never experienced before. Something that burned every inch of his body, inside and out, in its enormity.

It _hurt. _

It took him seconds- full _seconds- _to process why he felt this insane, tingling scorch. A memory, half-processed realization of an antiquities museum, a girl named Soo Lin and a mysterious, dark silhouette with a gun that flashed so brightly... hearing nothing for so long, until there was the single shot, the one that fell into his stomach like a stone, that confirmed that, yes, she was dead... dead, though, hadn't meant anything then, not really...

This was different...

There was only one other right now.

Just one.

One... one in the freezer... one in the world...

_The one who matters most... _

_More than anything..._

_More than..._

He couldn't control the scream, the plea, the denial that was rising up inside of him, tearing apart his throat and lungs, a begging cry for an answer, for an assurance that he knew would never come... it would reveal him, but he didn't care... what mattered anymore, really?

"_John!_"

It was the shriek of an animal, high and ragged, the sort of sound that he'd never before allowed to escape him, but that he couldn't possibly hold back now. Everything seemed too fuzzy and too bright at the same time, and all he could see were sharp black-and-white edges, but somehow he was still moving with perfect speed and precision, towards where the shot had come from, not accepting what he knew had to be true. Because if John was gone, the world would be gone. There would be nothing. _Nothing. _He couldn't remember time before the doctor, and time after was entirely inconceivable. It seemed impossible that anything _could _occur after such a thing as John's... as his... it wouldn't work. Things couldn't just keep moving on... there would be no moving on, because John _was _the universe to him, simply was...

Then he was rounding the corner, his eyes tracing that line of blood the same way John's had moments earlier, his heart seeming to swell up until it pressed his lungs to his ribcage and blocked up his throat, so that by the time he saw the two bodies, he simply wasn't breathing anymore. There they were, both face-down, inches apart... the first was no longer bleeding... she'd been dead for... longer...

But the second.

The second body... looking so small, lying crumpled on the ground, blood, so bright, vivid, dark scarlet trickling sluggishly out of a spot somewhere between the neck and the left shoulder... shot... destroyed...

_No._

That was all. Just _no. _Pulsing through his mind over and over like a heartbeat, until he didn't even know what it meant anymore, didn't know what anything meant, just knew that he had- _had- _to... to fix things, to _undo _them... _no... no... no... _Sherlock was standing up dead straight, stiff as if he'd been in the freezer for days... for months... for years... forever...

Then a sentence formed itself in his mind all at once, just suddenly there, perfectly clear, the edges as flawlessly precise and delicately formed as the edges of a snowflake- _You have your whole life to live out alone now. _

But he _couldn't. _He wouldn't keep on living after this... there would be some way to put an end to it, there would have to be...

Then the voice came. Sleek and cold, no more tainted by emotion than it had ever been, sounding almost lazy, like a lion watching the death throes of its prey.

"Don't be _stupid, _he's not dead yet."

Sherlock had never in his life moved faster than he did then. Seemingly as soon as the words reached his brain, he was turning around, just in time to see a very familiar figure sitting primly on one of the meat piles, twirling a pistol casually in one of his long-fingered, pale hands, watching with mild, oil-black eyes.

"She is, I'm afraid," Moriarty went on, pointing the gun casually in Sarah's direction. "I'd say it was a shame, but it really wasn't. You agree, don't you?" A predator's grin curled the corner of his mouth. "You didn't think she was..." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "_Good enough _for your precious Johnny boy. Oh, dear, someone's been _jealous... _and hiding a little something, too, hasn't he? They call you asexual, silly little ignorant brats..."

Sherlock wasn't listening. As soon as the first words spoken by his enemy had reached his mind, he'd been on his knees, next to John, lifting him up by the shoulders, trying to ignore how limp he was... checking the pulse that his shaking fingers could barely find, confirming that this wasn't just another of countless lies on Moriarty's part...

He was alive.

_Alive. _

_He's alive. _

The world came flooding back then, fully real one more time as Sherlock slowly let John's weak form slump down again, still cradling the blonde-haired head to his chest. He slowly raised his eyes, burning with cold fury, until they reached the calm black ones opposite him.

"Leave," he snarled. Once again, the voice that saturated the air was completely unfamiliar to him, and judging by the flicker of the psychopath's usually perfectly maintained expression, it was surprising to him, as well. "Leave. Now." The hand that wasn't supporting John was inching along the frozen floor, brushing over the rough iciness, and then finding it- smooth metal still slightly warmed from the hand that had been clutching it hardly over a minute before.

"_Leave?_" The deep twist to Moriarty's voice, which managed to scale several octaves in that single syllable, made the prospect sound ridiculous. "Hm, no. I don't think so. I've got all my little birdies trapped in the same cage... nope, definitely not the time to let them _go._"

"Leave or I'll kill you." There was no question that it had to be done. Anyone who would dare to not only take John once, but twice, and the second time, bring things much closer to the brink... no, Moriarty wouldn't, couldn't survive this encounter as well. With this in mind, Sherlock steadily raised his gun arm, pointing it straight towards the other's heart. His hand didn't waver in the slightest. Every bit of him was behind the decision he made as his finger curled around the trigger.

"_Kill _me? That's a bit dramatic of you, now, isn't it?" the mass murderer scolded, his neat little nose wrinkling in mock disgust. "Nah, I don't believe that you're going to kill me. And do you know why?"

"I don't care why," Sherlock replied evenly. "Get the _hell _out of here. You can come back later if you want. Threaten me. Kill more innocent citizens. Set up your games and puzzles. Just don't hurt him. Don't you _dare _hurt him, ever again."

Moriarty's teeth, gleaming slightly in the freezer's surreal light, were fully revealed as he pulled his lips back in a devilish smile. "So... attached. Not a good-"

"SHUT _UP!_" Sherlock bellowed, crushing his finger as hard as he could against the trigger of the gun.

Nothing.

A small laugh bubbled up from the dark-eyed man, slowly growing into a full-blown gale of snickers. "You," he choked, looking up at Sherlock's confused face as he wiped a sleeve over his eyes, "are _hilarious, _has anyone ever told you that? So _dramatic. _And stupid, quite stupid. Hilarious and stupid. Savor this moment, Sherlock Holmes, because I doubt you'll ever be flattered by those particular adjectives again... really, though, would I leave a perfectly functional gun just sitting there? You're not living up to the standard I've set for you. Mind a bit muddled by this little-girl crush of yours?"

_No... no, this can't happen! _It was supposed to be over. He was supposed to have just ended it. But he was left here desperately clinging to what was soon to be a corpse, knowing that he was absolutely at the mercy of Moriarty, who was hopping off of the stack of frozen meat and tucking his free hand into his pocket, tilting his head with softly curious appraisal.

"I could kill you right now," he proclaimed casually. He considered the gun in his hand, then, slowly, pulled a second item out of his suit pocket, making sure to keep his hand tightly fisted around it. "Do you know what I have here?" he drawled, waving the gun teasingly before Sherlock's face.

_There isn't time for this. _John was still bleeding, staining the ground so that he and Sherlock were surrounded by a pool of blood, and the latter didn't need the medical training of his dying companion to know that he couldn't make it much longer without the support supplied at a hospital. And yet Moriarty had already shown that he was resistant to fury, so he had to attempt to try a different angle. _Just play along with him, and get out at the soonest possible opportunity... _

"Show me," Sherlock suggested in a low growl.

"If you're going to be such a _party pooper,_" the other pouted. "You're no fun with your precious doctor hurt, did you know that? So _serious. _Oh, I do hate it when people are endlessly serious... you've always been that way, though, haven't you?"

"Show me," he repeated, his voice as dark and strong as iron.

Moriarty's, on the other hand, was light and fluttering, sparkling like the stone that he slowly unveiled, dangling it from his fingertips. "Right here. What started it all... the _cursed _diamond. I can't help but not believe in it... I'm sure its skewered, painfully classic sense of morality would have me dead at this point, don't you agree?"

"If that's what you want, take it," Sherlock replied simply. "Take it and leave."

"So _boring,_" Moriarty complained again, his Irish-accented voice taking a particularly deep swerve on the second word. "Accept that he's just a pet, why don't you? They all die eventually... it's just the two of us that are important here, Sherlock. Forget John Watson. He's dull, isn't he?" The permanent smirk on his mouth was widening. "You've always thought so... the stupidest of stupid people. He doesn't know how to think. He considers you some sort of _god. _Is that why you like him so much? Pure vanity?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth tightly, determined to say nothing. _He's just trying to provoke you. Don't let him. Ignore it. Ignore it. _

"Really, what is he? Another person. Nothing special whatsoever. He's expendable as anyone. Is that so hard for you to see?"

"He's not expendable to me," Sherlock hissed, a boiling sensation curling around his stomach.

"And why's that? Is it because you think he has a pretty face? Hm? Or how he follows you around like a _dog, _always _complementing _and _going on _about how _wonderful _you are, _smart _Sherlock, _brave _Sherlock, _handsome _Sherlock, _cold _Sherlock who still must have _some _sort of heart... is that why?"

"No."

"No? Then it must be that he pays part of your rent, covers it all up for you... for the little unappreciated sociopath who can't take care of his own expenses, even with a brother, who, according to him, _is _the very British Government... why not run to Mycroft, let him take care of you? That little scrap of PTSD-infected _waste _isn't necessary... leave him behind. This is _our _game, Sherlock, and the good doctor is really just getting in the way at this point."

"No."

"No _again? _Well, enough guessing. Tell me _why. _Tell me why it's so impossible for you. Tell me why this is so vital. Tell me why you can't just go back to the way things were."

Sherlock knew the answer. It was burning in his mind, carrying with it a thousand memories of admiring smiles, of eyes that were a gorgeous balance of blue and hazel, of a bitter pang that came with the words _At least, I hope not, _an eager voice explaining the stupidly impossible concepts of a particularly far-fetched _Doctor Who _episode, the violent bang that struck the taxi cab driver dead, an uplifting surge every time the sound of footsteps came from the door meaning that he was home... him... the man he'd met through Mike Stamford, the one who'd _admired _him, put up with him, and more than that- saved his life more than once, not just from the cabbie, but from the Golem, holding up that gun as Sherlock was gasping for breath, staring dead-on and spitting out eight steady, strong words- _Let him go, or I will kill you. _

"_Tell me why._"

_Say the words. _

"Go on-"

"_Because I love him!_"

_There. Done. You... you said it. _Everything, including Sherlock's thoughts, seemed to have been cast into slow motion. There weren't any words there, not really, just a void of emotion, like he'd let down a highly pressurized dam, allowed everything to come crashing forward at once. There wasn't any taking it back now- not just the things he'd said, but what he'd finally admitted to himself. It was there now. And whether or not he died here, tonight, in this freezer, he'd make sure John got out if he had to fight for it with his last breath. And things would end with him knowing that, after all, he was just as weak as anyone.

"Oh, is _that _it?" Moriarty mused delightedly, and Sherlock knew that he was poring over the words mentally, stretching them like clay into whichever form was most useful to him. "That's a shame... really, really quite a disappointment. Is this the end, then? The end of the great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by what he likes to call _love. _Sad, I have to say. On the bright side, it does make it much easier for me to kill you, knowing that you're as stupid and idiotic as any of them." He flipped the gun between his fingers, still holding the diamond delicately in the other hand. "Let's get it over then, shall we? Didn't even need my snipers this time around... shame..."

_No... there has to be a way out of this... _

_You have to save John..._

Then he saw it.

Right there, so simple... so perfect... letting the empty gun he held drop to the ground, Sherlock reached into his pocket, fingers curling around what he needed. _Yes. _Crude, simple, and yet- if it could be timed right- effective...

"Why don't you savor it one last time?" Moriarty breathed, lifting the small gemstone up so that it was suspended between his and Sherlock's faces. His own eyes were perfectly fixated on it. "Uncut, and yet still so gorgeous..."

_The structure of diamonds... slows light... creating an effect like no other... _

It was his only chance.

Lunging forward, letting John slip to the ground, Sherlock lifted the tiny keychain flashlight that had been in his pocket, holding the bright, concentrated beam up against the stone's crystalline surface.

For a hundredth of a heartbeat, perhaps, there was nothing. Then a focused, blindingly colorful streak of rainbow-hued light extended from the side of the diamond, the distorted shimmer striking Moriarty squarely in the wide, dark pupil of his enraptured eye. With a yelp, he clapped his hand over it, letting the precious stone slip from his fingers and onto the frosty ground, where, in the typical manner of something so transparent, it vanished.

Sherlock's mind was moving at a million miles an hour, scooping up John and clutching him to his chest, back muscles straining as he stood, running as hard as he could down the side of the freezer, skirting a hail of noisy bullets that was suddenly being fired his way from snipers hidden God knows where. There was the door- in the half-second that it took him to ram his body against it, a scorching sensation dashed across his shoulders, but it was only a graze, could have been worse... then he was outside, in the main area of the factory, surrounded by the sound of wailing sirens. Looking around in confusion, he stumbled a step forward, starting to falter under John's weight, but then someone was grabbing him under the elbows, holding him up, and a voice was muttering in his ear.

"Well, look who decided to play the hero."

Never in his life had he been so happy to hear Sally Donovan's voice.


	10. 10

**A/N **_Well, this is it, everyone. I hope you all enjoyed, and PLEASE review, each and every one of you. Meaning that I am talking to YOU, and asking YOU to review, please :3 I don't bite! It would make me extremely happy, in fact, even if you don't have anything good to say. ^^ And while we're on the topic of Sherlock, "The Hounds of Baskerville" is airing in just a couple of hours. I'm excited! :D Oh, and if you have any urge to randomly converse with a rabid fangirl, feel free to PM me. I'd love that XD Oh, and people, if you're at all interested in a sequel to this, please either say so in a review or go and vote on the poll on my profile page. I guess this is it, to everyone!_

**Thanks to** _Sylvia Griffin3_

**Disclaimer **_I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

><p>[<em>1010]_

"You couldn't have honestly thought that I was stupid enough to let you go alone?" Lestrade inquired amazedly.

Sherlock ran a careful hand over the bandaged part of his upper back, wincing at the soreness. "Maybe I could."

The Detective Inspector shook his head mutely, seemingly at a loss. The silence stretched on, until finally Sherlock spoke.

"Any sign of Moriarty?"

"Nothing. And none of those snipers of his, either. Not to mention the diamond. They're going to have to thaw the whole place, waste that much meat, just to find the damned stone. And I suppose Scotland Yard will be expected to pay for it."

Sherlock sighed, slumping down a bit farther in the plastic chair he'd been situated in. He'd never particularly liked hospitals. Though useful, they also kept themselves irritatingly clean. The scent of disinfectant seemed to be slowly poisoning his sinuses. They were also kind enough to bar visitors to a room. Which was possibly the most infuriating thing he could think of at the moment.

"We're going to have to take you in for question about Sawyer's death," Lestrade went on, looking vaguely uncomfortable in his own chair.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked, scowling. "You know I didn't kill her."

"Yeah, well, it's routine."

"And I can tell you exactly who did. It's the man who used to work in the IT here. Under the name Jim. You can also blame him for Molly Hooper's derangement."

Lestrade looked briefly excited by this news, then visibly deflated again. "We haven't seen him for ages, though. Disappeared after your incident at the..." Then he was glaring. "Sherlock, he was at the pool, wasn't he?"

The detective didn't respond, instead choosing to feel sorry for the nurse walking by, who, judging by the state of her hair, hadn't been getting along very well with her husband lately.

"You can't keep things from us like this, Sherlock! This could be vital information! And if you get another encounter with this Moriarty character scheduled, I fully expect you to let us know-"

"But do you really?" Sherlock countered.

"Well... maybe I don't expect, but I wish I could." The policeman exhaled slowly, shaking his head and touching his graying hair with a hand, the ensuring wince leading Sherlock to conclude that he had a nasty headache. "You really are a hard man to work with sometimes."

"Then stop letting me help you," he suggested.

"Like we'd ever do that."

At a normal time, Sherlock might have smirked, but he really couldn't at that moment. There was too much conflict battling inside him to visibly show anything that might indicate happiness. "Like you would. I'm afraid you'll just have to put up with me for now."

There was another stretch during which neither of them spoke, and Lestrade leaned forward, rifling one-handedly through one of the gossip magazines spread out in a classic fan on the table. His eyes- dark in an entirely different way from Moriarty's- were unfocused, though, and it was clear that he had other things on his mind. He was free to leave, but he clearly didn't want Sherlock to be left alone. A concern completely without reason.

Finally, he spoke again. "I do have to feel a bit bad for John."

"Of course you do. He got shot."

"That's not what I mean. And it isn't the first time that such a thing's happened to him, either," Lestrade pointed out in what he clearly considered to be a wise manner. Sherlock grunted inaudibly in response, and the DI sighed for a second time. "Because of Sawyer. I knew they were going out; who didn't?"

"Of course all of Scotland Yard would be aware of my flat mate's every move."

"Sherlock, please. I'm being serious here. I don't think you'd know, of all people, but, well, it's hard when someone you're attached to dies."

"Hm."

"Very, very hard. And, well... could you... try to be considerate of that for once? John's a good bloke. He doesn't need insensitivity right now."

Sherlock opened his mouth with some very precise words in mind as to just how much of Lestrade's business this was, but an interruption occurred in the form of a young, ponytailed nurse- not all that different-looking from Molly- who hurried over to their waiting chairs, clipboard in hand. She consulted it quickly before looking up, a broad and very fake smile plastered over her face, wide blue eyes whizzing back and forth between the two of them.

"Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade? Dr. Watson is conscious and ready for visitors at this time, if the two of you would like to come on up."

Sherlock was on his feet before he'd even begun to think about standing. Lestrade began to make a move to do the same, then settled back down with a wave of his hand. "Go on, let's not pressure him with more than one at a time."

"Just you, then, Mr...?" The nurse, Felicity Bloomington according to her name tag, clarified.

Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade tiredly supplied "Holmes" from behind him.

"Mr. Holmes. Excellent. Right this way, then..."

The elevator ride and walk down the hallway was a blur for him. All he knew was that, after both too long and too short of a time, he was standing before a door, and Felicity Bloomington was opening it, ushering him in.

There he was. John. Propped up on pillows with a thin, green-and-white striped blanket drawn up to his shoulders, one of which was bandaged up neatly. Smiling. A bit painful of a smile, but a genuine one nonetheless.

So alive.

"Visiting time is limited to ten minutes," Nurse Bloomington reminded Sherlock quietly before politely backing out of the room and closing the door, leaving the two of them in the room alone. He was frozen, watching, just drinking in the fact that John was alive, that he wasn't bleeding, that he was out of the factory and safe.

"Well." The doctor, now a patient, gave a small cough. "Looks like you saved me back there. Not that anyone's cared to supply me with the details."

"We're even now, then." Sherlock's voice came out too rough, but he ignored it.

"Far from it." John looked down at his blanket for a moment, a small shadow of a frown flitting over his features before vanishing.

He's not mentioning Sarah, Sherlock recognized, and took it as an indication to do the same. Instead, he straightened his already perfect posture, still letting the warmth of he's okay run through him. "I thought that you were dead," he finally pointed out when he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Glad you didn't leave me for it."

"I thought you were dead," he repeated desperately. He realized he was shaking, and leaned back ever so slightly against the wall.

"But because of you, I'm not," John reminded him earnestly. "Look- I'm here! I'm all right!"

"This time, you're all right... but..." Sherlock swallowed. "I... can't stand... if I actually lost you..."

The smile was starting to slip off the other's face, giving way to a more serious expression. "I'm fine," he murmured, but it now sounded oddly as if he were trying to convince myself. "I'm fine, and you're fine. Sarah..." He winced then, drawing his eyebrows together and knotting one of his hands in a handful of blanket, like he needed something to hold on to. "She... didn't make it... but we're okay, aren't we? Isn't that something?"

"That's everything."

And then Sherlock was smiling, really smiling, something that showed his teeth and reached his usually detached eyes. John didn't know everything that had happened in the freezer. He didn't know about the words that had been exchanged between the consulting detective and the consulting criminal, didn't know of the confession that Sherlock had made, not just to Moriarty, but to himself. All he knew was that the two of them had gotten out alive. And that was enough.

For now, that was enough.


End file.
